SUNY Series in Medieval Middle East History

Edited by Jere Bacharach

  
 An Ottoman Century

  
 An Ottoman Century
The District of Jerusalem in the 1600s

Dror Ze'evi

STATE UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK PRESS

  
 Published by
State University of New York Press, Albany

© 1996 State University of New York

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Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Ze'evi, Dror, 1953­
An Ottoman century : the district of Jerusalem in the 1600s / Dror
Ze'evi.
p. cm. — (SUNY series in medieval Middle East history) 
Originally presented as the author's thesis.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0­7914­2915­6 (alk. paper). — ISBN 0­7914­2916­4 (pbk. :
alk. paper)
1. Jerusalem—History. 2. Turkey—History—Ottoman Empire, 
1288–1918. I. Title. II. Series. 
DS109.92.Z44 1996
956.94'4203—dc20 95­30362 
CIP

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  
 To Amira, David, Lior and Omer

  
 Index

  
 Contents

Note on Transliteration

Preface

Introduction
 
Chapter 1 Zooming In

The City and Its Surroundings

Chapter 2 The Rise and Fall of Local Dynasties
 
Chapter 3 The Sufi Connection

Jerusalem Notables in the Seventeenth Century
 
Chapter 4 Desert, Village and Town

A Unified Social Structure
 
Chapter 5 Layers of Ownership

Land and Agrarian Relations
 
Chapter 6 An Economy in Transition

Commerce, Crafts and Taxation
 
Chapter 7 Worlds Apart

Women in a Men's World

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

  
 Index

  
 Page ix

Note on Transliteration
People in the region of Jerusalem at the time of this study spoke two languages.
The governing elite spoke Turkish, while the rest of the population were mostly
Arabic speakers. Scribes at the shari'a court in the city, which provided much
of the source material for this study, moved at ease between Turkish and
Arabic. Frequently one may find a Turkish expression or verb in a mainly
Arabic document, or vice versa. Furthermore, there is almost no way of
knowing what the pronunciation of many terms of Turkish or Arabic origin
was. Were they pronounced as they are today in modern Turkish usage, or did
they sound closer to Arabic speech? Sometimes it is even difficult to discern
what language was spoken in court. Since the presiding judges usually came
from Anatolia, and graduated from the State's colleges in Istanbul, most of
them probably spoke Turkish better than they did Arabic. It would be
reasonable to assume that few of them could have understood the colloquial
speech of villagers, or even that of city dwellers. Translators played a very
important part in this bilingual atmosphere. The records in court were probably
first translated into Turkish for the qadi's sake, and then back into Arabic for
the record.

For all these reasons it was difficult to decide what system of transliteration to
use. Translating terms into Arabic would sometimes sound awkward,
especially when some of the terms include Turkish or Persian syntax or
morphology, as in ther terms bad­i hava, or beylerbeylik. It would be no less
awkward to render words spoken by an Arabfallah in Turkish transliteration.
I have decided, therefore, to use both systems of transliteration simultaneously.
Terms used mainly by Turkish speakers; political, economic or military
terminology prevalent in the imperial center; and direct translations from
documents in Ottoman Turkish, were rendered in modern Turkish
transliteration. All the rest, including terms originating in Turkish but commonly
used by Arabic speakers, such as sanjaq (sancak, in Turkish) were rendered
in Arabic. At times the decision had to be arbitrary.
 Page x

In several cases, including place names like Hebron, Jaffa or Bethlehem, and
familiar terms such as sheikh or ulema, the common form of the term was
used.

Arabic transliteration follows the system of the International Journal of

Middle East Studies.
 Page xi

Preface
Research for this book was done in several locations. The archives in Istanbul,
Paris, Marseilles and London yielded important material. So did libraries at
London, Jerusalem, Paris and Princeton.

The most important source for this work, however, was the shari'a court in
Jerusalem. Working there was a unique experience. Crammed into one small
room we sat together—our guide and mentor, Sheikh As'ad al­husayni, three
scribes, and two or three historians working on their research. We worked
there for months, often holding the heavy volumes on our knees and doing our
best to copy records into notebooks perched on the edge of a clerk's desk. At
times we would all break into heated discussions of the political situation, or
joke about the awkward conditions. Sheikh As'ad, a fountain of knowledge on
questions of language, history and Islamic law, would lend a hand in decoding
some of the more difficult texts.

But the most peculiar feature of working at the shari'a court, was the fact that
it was not an archive. We were working inside a functioning court of law. As
we lifted our eyes from the ancient volumes, we could sometimes see similar
cases unfolding before us. Couples came in to sign a marriage contract, a
house owner would request a document of ownership, and sometimes a small
delegation would come to solve a dispute. Though it belongs in another era,
and I am aware of the differences, this experience has taught me more about
my research than much of the material meticulously gathered there. I would like
to thank all the qadis and officials at the Jerusalem shari'a court who helped us
so much, and above all Sheikh As'ad al­Imam al­husayni, and the director, Mr.
Zayn al­Din al­'Alami.

My principal debt of gratitude is to Ehud Toledano, my advisor for the

dissertation, who read the manuscript and provided a great deal of insight. His
help and guidance were invaluable. I would also like to thank Amnon Cohen,
who introduced me to the world of the sijill and helped me break the code;
Halil Bey Inalcik, who discussed many subjects with me, read parts of the
manuscript, and showed me where I got it wrong; and Michael Cook, who
read several chapters and made me look at things more closely.
 Page xii

It is a pity that I cannot convey my thanks to Albert Hourani, a special person

who devoted his time to guide and encourage me throughout my research.
Albert also read the manuscript and offered many of his shrewd and observant
insights.

Many friends contributed of their thoughts and knowledge. For their helpful
remarks thanks are due to Iris Agmon, a constant intellectual stimulus; to Amy
Singer and Itzik Reiter, my brothers­in­pen at court; to Nimrod Hurvitz, who
had many sharp observations; and to Israel Gershoni and Haggay Erlich who
saw me through the darker moments.

I wish to thank the staff of the Basbakanlik Arsivi in Istanbul and the staff of
the American Research Institute in Turkey, as well as my colleague there,
Fariba Zarinebaf­Shahr, for their help and hospitality.

The production staff of SUNY Press at Albany has invested much time and
effort into publishing this book. I would like to thank them all for their
wonderful work, and especially Christine Worden and Cathleen Collins, for
their assistance and persistence in guiding me through the various stages of
production.

I owe a debt of love and gratitude to my wife, Amira, and to my family, forced
to follow me to London and Princeton, and to suffer my tribulations and long
periods of absence visiting faraway archives. I am especially indebted to my
son, David, who grew up to be my computer adviser, and saved me in those
hours of panic, when the text suddenly disappeared somewhere in the bowels
of the machine.

This work would not have been possible without the generous finanacial help
of several institutions. I would like to thank my parents and my parents­in­law,
the Rothschild foundation, the Yigal Alon fund, Tel­Aviv University, and Ben­
Gurion University, for their help in various stages of this research. My sincere
thanks to the staff of the department for Near East Studies at Princeton
University for their assistance during my year of postdoctorate studies there.

BEER­SHEVA DORO ZE'EVI

FEBRUARY 1995
 Index

  
 Page 1

Introduction
In 1512 a young new sultan arrived at the throne in Istanbul. Selim I, otherwise
known as Selim the grim, reoriented the Ottoman empire to its eastern front,
and challenged his two formidable rivals, the Safavid shah Isma'il, and the
Mamluk sultan Qansuh al­Ghawri. Immediately following his accession to the
throne Selim began to plan his campaign against the Safavids, and two years
later, in early 1514, he left Istanbul at the head of his army, on his way to the
eastern front. In August of that year the two armies met in the valley of
Chaldiran (Çaldiran), north of Tabriz, the Safavid capital. the battle was won
by Selim's army, but the approaching winter and the pressures of the
janissaries forced the sultan to order a withdrawal to winter quarters in
Anatolia.

Confrontation with the Safavids brought the Ottomans closer to the Mamluks.
A defence treaty was signed between the Safavids and the Mamluks, and now
it was only a question of time before Ottomans and Mamluks, contenders for
leadership in Sunni Islam, would meet on the battlefield. Two years later, in
1516, Selim made preparations for yet another campaign in the East. It is not
clear whether his initial plan was to return to his unfinished business with the
Safavids, or to surprise the unsuspecting Mamluks, but as his army
approached Syria, the Mamluk sultan, Qansuh, hastily arranged his army and
marched north. Information about the advancing Mamluk army reached Selim,
and a series of failed diplomatic contacts and half­hearted overtures turned
down by both sides escalated the conflict until war was declared. On 24
August 1516, the Ottomans and the Mamluks faced each other on the plain of
Marj Dabiq near Aleppo.

The Mamluks fought valiantly, but their old fashioned bows and arrows were
no match for state­of­the­art Ottoman firearms. Waves of Mamluk cavalry
attacks crashed against efficient Ottoman fire and at a critical moment an entire
Mamluk flank, headed by the governor of Aleppo, Kha'ir (Hayir) Bey, crossed
over to the Ottoman side. The battle ended in a crushing defeat for the
Mamluks. The sultan, Qansuh, was killed, and the remains of his army
retreated south. As Selim entered Damascus,
 Page 2

delegations from all provinces of the sultanate came to pledge allegiance and to
plead for amnesty and protection. 1

The historian Ibn Tulfun, who recorded the events of the conquest, describes
the Ottoman army's trip south to Egypt as short and uneventful, apart from
short battles in the Jordan valley and at the village of Khan Yunus, near Gaza.
Small­scale uprisings in Safad, Ramla and Gaza were quickly and efficiently
crushed, and on January 1517 the Ottoman army crossed the Sinai desert and
prepared for another confrontation with the Mamluks. The ensuing battle,
which took place in the field of Raydaniyya near Cairo, was an overwhelming
defeat for the Mamluks, and the remains of the Mamluk army dispersed. The
Ottomans had completed their conquest of the sultanate, and could now
declare themselves uncontested leaders of the Islamic world, and keepers of its
holy sanctuaries in Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem. Efficient bureaucrats set out
to prepare the ground for establishing Ottoman order in the new territories.2

In the century following the Ottoman conquest, the district of Jerusalem still
retained many characteristics of the vanquished Mamluk sultanate. Old social
institutions, laws, cultural norms, and even surviving members of the ruling elite
itself, were part of the new scene, and served as constant reminders of this
slowly fading past. Not until the end of the sixteenth century did Ottoman rule
emerge as a distinct type of Muslim government, leaving its special mark on
culture and society.

In general terms the Ottomans accepted Mamluk administrative divisions,

which saw Palestine as part of the Syrian province, but internally the partition
of the area was changed. The province of Damascus (eyalet or vilayet in
Turkish, wilaya in Arabic), was divided into new districts (sancak in Turkish,
sanjaq or liwa' in Arabic) and subdistricts (nahiye in Turkish, nahiya in
Arabic), but for several decades the new division retained Mamluk imprints
such as the special status accorded to Safad and Gaza as the more important
districts in the Palestinian provinces. Gaza was ruled by a governor with
chances of promotion to the position of province governor (vali, wali). The
district of Jerusalem retained its Mamluk subdivision into three nahiyas
(Jerusalem, Hebron and Banu 'Amr) but in the course of the century the third
subdistrict was abolished and only the first two remained.3

At the base of this new Ottoman administrative division stood the timar
system. Timars were landed fiefs of different size and income, distributed by
the sultan to soldiers and officials, most of them officers of the famous sipahi
cavalry units. An officer who was entrusted to a timar would receive his
income from part of the fief's tax revenues, and in return would be required to
keep the peace in his timar, and to arm and train several retainers for war. A
district governor would in most cases be the commanding
 Page 3

officer of a sipahi regiment, and the vali, the province governor, would also be
commander­in­chief of all district governors.

Along with timars, which officially remained part of the sultan's land, and in
which cultivators had certain rights, systems of land tenure included waqf
(Turkish: vakif ) land, dedicated by its owners to public welfare, religious
purposes or private beneficiaries. In the district of Jerusalem waqf lands
constituted a large part, perhaps even the largest category of cultivated land,
estimated by some at around 60 percent. The Ottomans left Mamluk waqf
institutions intact, and added many of their own during the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. Beside timars and waqfs there was some private land,
mostly in and around towns and villages.

Improved security in towns and villages and for caravans on the road, a tighter
system of administrative control, a more efficient bureaucracy and a pragmatic
system of taxation which led to economic expansion, have all contributed to
rapid population growth at the beginning of the sixteenth century. According to
some researchers, the country's population at the time is estimated at two
hundred thousand, most of them in villages. The population in each of the three
biggest cities, Gaza, Safad and Jerusalem, was estimated at five to six
thousand, and these numbers grew steadily until mid­century. Growth was also
fueled by a renewal of maritime and regional trade, and by renewed settlement
of Jews expelled from Spain, who found refuge in the Ottoman Empire. This
trend was reversed later in the century, and the population continued to decline
in the seventeenth century. 4

As in many of their other conquests, the Ottomans left taxation principles more
or less intact in the first decades of their rule. Taxes in Jerusalem, therefore,
were collected according to a different system altogether than that prevailing in
the Balkans or in Anatolia. But in their meticulous way the Ottomans carried
out surveys of the conquered territories to determine production capacities and
to define new rates of taxation. In the course of the century, taxes seem to
have increased and revenues accruing from the province rose, even when the
population began to decrease.5

Ottoman economic policy tended to compartmentalize the populace, and keep

an eye over changes in occupation or status, but a flexible approach to
applying laws and customs made it possible for people in the region to adapt to
changing circumstances, and to initiate an economic boom in the sixteenth
century. This same pragmatism had led the Ottomans to play down their
control of local economy in the seventeenth century, and to allow the province
and the district to conduct their own economic affairs. Jewish and Christian
communities in Jerusalem, as in other districts of the empire, were integrated
into the economic fabric. Ottoman attitudes to these minorities did not differ
much from its treatment of Muslim
 Page 4

populations. One indication is the degree of trust in which Christians and Jews
held the new local shari'a court, and their willingness to apply for state justice
even when they were not obliged to. 6

Inside Jerusalem the conquest brought with it a change of emphasis. The

Ottomans recognized the religious importance of Jerusalem, as their willingness
to invest heavily in the city and its surroundings bears testimony. Instead of
carrying on the Mamluk proclivity to invest in religious institutions, however,
the new rulers chose to cut down spending on madrasas and mosques, of
which the city already had its fair share, and to direct the flow of budget
allocations, contributions and alms, to improving security, to providing water,
to erecting a new covered market, and to enhancing the welfare of Jerusalem's
population. Reconstruction of the city wall and the castle, some twenty years
after the conquest, gave the inhabitants a sense of security which was lacking
for so many years. Repairing and enlarging the water systems, including the
building of a pipeline from the village of Artas south of Bethlehem to Jerusalem,
helped provide water for the rapidly growing town. Rebuilding and renovating
the markets, along with the establishment of a large size waqf—al­Khasikiyya,
or Haseki Sultan—for the welfare of the inhabitants, gave a serious boost to
the economy and to the city's standard of living. The awareness of social
justice and proper administration brought by the Ottomans was enhanced by
the establishment of a shari'a court, headed by a qadi appointed by decree
from Istanbul to provide a counterweight to the governor and his retinue.

It took several decades, until the second half of the sixteenth century, for
Ottoman patterns of administration and economy to set in. It took even longer
for Ottoman culture and the new outlook of a world empire to become part of
people's worldview. A mere century later, however, in the early 1700s,
Palestine witnessed the beginning of Western encroachment on its economy
and politics, and the rise to power of local potentates who defied Ottoman rule
and rebelled against it. Intensive trade with Europe, mainly with France,
brought with it glimpses of Western influence on local economic patterns, and
at the same time helped alleviate some of the suspicion felt by inhabitants of this
region toward the Christian West and its representatives. Through these chinks
in the armor, some of Europe's culture found its way in. It is therefore just as
difficult to discern in this later period which strands of local history are uniquely
Ottoman, and which were the result of local power struggles or of outside
influences.7

The truly Ottoman period in Jerusalem and in the other Arab provinces,
therefore, is the one in between. The second century of Ottoman rule, forming
the time frame for this study, is perhaps the clearest manifestation
 Page 5

in this region of ''the Ottoman way"—the distinct set of norms and methods
that represents the empire's rule in all realms of life.

In Jerusalem the seventeenth century culminated in open rebellion in 1703,

known as the naqib al­ashraf revolt. Records of this event depict a society in
turmoil, and cast a shadow over the whole period leading up to the rebellion.
The book describes the district of Jerusalem in the century preceding these
dramatic events, and analyzes their causes and circumstances.

At the outset of the book the stage is set, upon which the events of the century
unfolded. Its first part portrays the countryside, agriculture and villages, as seen
by contemporary Western travelers and pilgrims. Their reports are then
contrasted with accounts from Arabic and Turkish sources, out of which other
symbol­laden depictions of reality emerge. From the surrounding villages the
description moves on to the city itself. In light of debates about the nature of
cities in the Islamic world, one of the questions posed here is the extent of
Jerusalem's urban character. Was there a municipal authority? Did the city's
inhabitants feel a common bond uniting them as a community? Was it a clearly
defined entity set apart from surrounding villages? Although Jerusalem, an
ancient city, and the site of numerous conquests and cultures, cannot be taken
as a model for all Islamic urban communities in the Ottoman period, its
structure and function suggest the existence of a well­developed, typically
Ottoman urban authority.

The city and the district are then examined in their political and social contexts.
At the end of the sixteenth century, tensions were already apparent between
local governors—sons and slaves of former senior officials, or Bedouin
shaykhs in the area—and their colleagues appointed by the Ottoman
government. This rivalry intensified during the seventeenth century as local
governors formed governing households while strengthening their hold on the
districts of Palestine. New source material found in Muslim court archives
sheds light on the peculiar history and the down­fall of these households.

For several decades local governing families managed to resist the center's
pressures to appoint governors other than their own. Simultaneously, through
intermarriage, business transactions and joint military ventures, they merged
into one extended family, controlling most of Western Palestine. In the second
half of the century, however, the imperial center retrieved some of its former
power, and through a combination of covert action and political shrewdness
succeeded in breaking the hold of these households. These were now replaced
by other governors, appointed from Istanbul or from the provincial capital of
Damascus. Chapter 2 traces the formation of local households, their
consolidation as local ruling dynasties,
 Page 6

the slow process of amalgamation into one combined force, and their
dissolution at the end of the century.

First to notice these changing circumstances later in the century were the
notables of Jerusalem. Following a period of readjustment in the wake of the
Ottoman conquest, ulema ('ulama'), members of distinguished families, and
wealthy merchants, gradually regained and reinforced their former status.
Joining the same Sufi brotherhoods, participating in the same mystic
ceremonies, the localizing governing elite and the emerging notable elite soon
found common ground and created a basis for cooperation to the benefit of
both sides. These ties enabled notables to acquire tax­free land and other
assets, thereby strengthening their economic and social status. Later in the
seventeenth century, having amassed considerable fortunes in city and village
alike, notable families became aware of their cohesion as a group and of their
social position, and strove to complement it with a measure of political power.
The third chapter examines these processes and their tragic denouement in the
1703 revolt.

A main target of the revolt was the local military force. This establishment and
in particular the very special role played by the bedouin in military affairs are
not well known. Received wisdom describes the bedouin as diehard enemies
of Ottoman rule and as a perennial menace to local governors. In the period
surveyed in this study, however, bedouin tribes played a different role
altogether. Following the decline of elite Ottoman troops—the sipahis and the
janissaries—bedouin warriors emerged as the main force capable of replacing
them on the local scene. Governors hired them as militia forces in their service
and employed them in a variety of security tasks. The unique formation of
sedentary­nomad relations observed in this period, and the meaning these
relations took on for the culture and economy of the district, were an early
indication of bedouin involvement in Palestinian districts, which had become
more widespread in later centuries.

Local economic life was dependent to a great extent on agriculture and

systems of land tenure. Agrarian relations in the district were complex and
tense. Here the lethargy of the center was evident. As the landbased cavalry
and infantry became inefficient in the late sixteenth century, old mechanisms for
distributing and managing fiefs lost their raison d'être and fell into disuse.
Timar holders in the district of Jerusalem and its environs often preferred to
lease their fiefs to the highest bidder in order to avoid the painstaking process
of exacting taxes and overseeing the villagers. Local leasing of fiefs, later to
become comprehensive government policy, caused considerable damage to
the agriculture, and weakened rural areas. The imperial center chose to ignore
these harmful tendencies, but other results, more beneficial for the local
population, were equally ignored.
 Page 7

Periodic land surveys, an Ottoman bureaucratic practice used to register all

land, population and expected yield, fell into disuse at the beginning of the
seventeenth century. Replaced by a relatively lenient set of agrarian legal
norms, it permitted peasants and other land holders to regard state land as
freehold for all practical purposes, while upholding the principle of the sultan's
ultimate ownership. Among those who stood to gain most from the
government's leniency were once again the local notables. They managed to
buy or rent large tracts of land and to increase their private holdings, using their
high social profile and their government patrons as a shield against heavy
taxation.

The century also witnessed rapid developments in the monetary and fiscal
system, in local industry, and in internal and external commerce. In the
sixteenth century, the economy was tightly controlled and centrally directed.
Tax revenues were assessed through meticulous land surveys, the qadi's court
published detailed price lists for basic commodities several times a year, and
export of certain products and items to Europe was strictly forbidden.
Beginning at the end of the century, these control mechanisms disappeared
altogether. The fiscal system lost its guiding principles and the burden of
arbitrary taxes became heavier. Local governors adopted a "laissez faire"
attitude in internal trade, and external trade was also allowed to go on
unhampered. Weaker central control and a disoriented tax system had
immediate effects on local economic life, and on the integration of the area into
the world economy.

Examining the place of women in the social system allows us to view such
social and economic processes from a different perspective. Here, too,
accepted stereotypes, originating in Western literature and projected
backwards from later periods, are critically reevaluated. Local sources show
clearly that women in Jerusalem lived and acted in a social and economic
system separate to some extent from the dominant male establishment. Islamic
law and local custom gave women a certain leeway in the realm of marriage
and personal status, as well as in business and property rights. Many business
transactions in the district were conducted by women who represented their
own interests. What can all this tell us about discrimination of women, about
their life in a male­dominated society, and about systems of social control?

It is my hope that examining all these perspectives together in such a small area
over a period of time may afford us a more lucid understanding of Jerusalem as
an Ottoman district in the seventeenth century, and perhaps shed some more
light on the history of other Ottoman provinces and districts during the same
period.
 Index

  
 Page 9

Chapter I
Zooming In
The City and Its Surroundings
Historical research is always bound by time and space. This is the special
context which the historian brings into his investigation of a culture or an event.
Yet formal definitions of time and space can sometimes be misleading. The
pace changes from one century to the next, and from one place to another.
Likewise, the spatial borders that are believed by any human culture to
surround it may change over time. These changes occur in the imagined space
itself, and in the feared unknown beyond its borders.

Descriptions of the district (sanjaq; Turk. sancak) of Jerusalem in the

seventeenth century may suggest the way in which this area was viewed by its
inhabitants, by their rulers, and by travelers coming from abroad. It could serve
as a basis for understanding local politics, culture and economy. The
description starts at the district's borders, goes on to the villages and the city,
and then on to the smaller neighborhoods and to the individual house itself.

The District of Jerusalem in Pilgrims' Accounts

The inhabitants of Jerusalem and its surroundings in the seventeenth century left
few descriptions of their world. Local travel accounts, or chronicles written in
the area by its Muslim inhabitants, are very rare. Most descriptions were
written by Christian and Jewish travelers who visited the area in the course of
the century. Apart from the distorting conventions of style and literary
expectations in such accounts, many of the non­Muslim
 Page 10

visitors were also torn between conflicting emotions. Their writing was
conditioned by religious awe and longing for the biblical past; by
misconceptions about the Orient, gleaned from generations of proto­Orientalist
literature and Crusader myths; and by wide­eyed astonishment at its present­
day rulers and inhabitants, so different, so strange and menacing. 1

Historians trying to uncover the mysteries of this past era are very much like
these travelers of old. They too weigh anchor in a distant port, carrying their
own burden of memories and misconceptions, images of past glory, and
notions of decline and corruption. They too find it hard to reconcile their
images of gloom with depictions of reality that offer a different understanding.
Following the travelers in their encounter with the new world that surrounds
them may therefore introduce us to this faraway land, and guide us through our
first hesitant steps. From these works of fiction that combine myth and
reflections of reality, we may then proceed to another viewpoint, another
reality—that of the local inhabitants.

At the beginning of the century an unknown English traveler described the

Muslim inhabitants of Palestine as a barbarous crowd, fond of adultery,
sodomy, rape and other beastly deeds. "There is no evil deed on this earth not
performed by the inhabitants of this Terra Sancta or holy land, which hath the
name and nothing else" he said.2 Others, trapped in romantic biblical images,
described a fertile land of milk and honey. One of them went as far as to
describe the gigantic grapes he found in the "valley of Eshkol" south of
Bethlehem, similar to those carried on a pole between two by Moses' spies.

Descriptions of both kinds abound in travelers' accounts. Some manage to

combine both aspects, praising the countryside and its beauty, and denouncing
its inhabitants at one and the same time. Many travelers copied descriptions
from each other, perhaps in order to satisfy the readers' demand for accounts
of holy sites which they have not been able to visit. Their descriptions are
therefore not very reliable, and should be cross­checked. Still, several provide
a more or less accurate description of areas they traveled through, and a close
examination reveals consistent changes over time.

The first encounter with the Holy Land may have been the sight of a small port,
where their journey at sea came to an end. After a perilous journey through a
sea infested with pirates of almost every creed and nation, the ships arrived at
Jaffa, Acre, Gaza or Haifa. The sight was grim and ominous. The coastal
towns, destroyed by the Ayyubids and the Mamluks in the wake of the
Crusades, in order to prevent another invasion and the reestablishment of a
Crusader stronghold on the shore, were left in their ruin until the end of the
seventeenth century. These were meager villages that could hardly supply the
basic needs of traders and commerce.
 Page 11

Apart from Gaza, which had a small wharf, all provided nothing but natural
anchorages, devoid of any docks or wave breakers. French merchants trading
in wheat and cotton preferred the town of Ramle, some twenty kilometers
inland, to the almost deserted port of Jaffa. 4

Other travelers came by land, mainly from Egypt, in organized caravans

transporting hundreds of people at the same time. At the slow pace of the
caravan, it took some twenty days to travel from Cairo to Jerusalem. Many
travelers complained about the delays along the way:
[It was a] 20 days journey, which upon hors we could have come in 12, but the
camels slow march and the Jews sabbathes whereupon the caravan rested did
lengthen it to 20 which is the ordinary tyme that the caravan requires for that
journey.5

Their first impressions of Palestine were, however, quite different. Having

crossed the arid deserts of Sinai and the Negev, they were overjoyed at the
sight of the stretches of fields and vineyards that welcomed them as they
approached Gaza and the coastal plain.6

The road coming from Damascus was shorter and safer, but strangers still
preferred to travel in company, usually with an armed escort. Highway robbers
were not uncommon even along this main route, linking the capital of the
province of Damascus with one of its major cities.7

Western Palestine, or the southwestern part of the province of Damascus, was

divided at the time into four main districts (sanjaqs): Gaza, Lajjun (the northern
valleys), Nabulus and Jerusalem. There were minor border changes in the
course of the century, but as a rule this administrative and military division
remained fairly stable from the Ottoman conquest until the eighteenth century.
Travel and commerce between districts was unrestricted, and there was no
visible demarcation of the borders. The district of Jerusalem, which the
travelers now entered, extended from Ramallah in the north to Hebron in the
south, and from Jaffa on the Mediterranean coast to Jericho and the Jordan
valley to the east of the city.8

Two main roads crossed the district, one along the Judean­Samarian mountain
range, running north to south, and the other, connecting the coastal plain in the
west to the Jordan river valley in the east. The two mountain roads intersected
in Jerusalem. Travelers coming from Jaffa followed the road east, along the
plains to Ramle, to the valley of Ayalon, and then usually up the narrow creek
of Bab al­Wad to the city. Those coming from Damascus, Acre and Haifa
chose in most cases to travel south, through the plain of Esdraelon (Marj bani
'Amr), Jenin and Nabulus, and the mountains of Samaria. Those coming from
Cairo would choose either the road going north to Jaffa and hence east to
Jerusalem, or the one leading northeast from Bayt Jibrin to Hebron, Bethlehem
and finally Jerusalem.
 Page 12

Carried away by their biblical imagination, they were enchanted by the land's
beauty and its natural fertility. At this period there were still vast areas of
natural forest and grasslands. Roger, a Frenchman who visited Palestine in the
1630s, describes the many kinds of wildlife: lions, buffaloes, camels, leopards,
boars, jackals and hyenas. A change in emphasis is apparent at the beginning
of the eighteenth century, in the accounts of English travelers like Sandys and
Maundrel. They describe an interim state where some areas are still intensively
cultivated and abound in pasture, while others are depopulated and poor,
overgrown or covered by marshes. 9

In our century, however, travelers were still impressed by what they saw as
their mules carried them inland. Those coming from Jaffa described the fields of
cotton and vegetables, and noticed a change in the pattern of cultivation as
olive trees and other fruit­bearing trees gradually dominated the landscape
when they moved into the hills:
The conntry ajacent [to Ramle] abounds in cotton which can be spun in very
fine yarn they sell at 14 pence a pound. […] We marched east and by south 6
myles through a vally pleasent and fertill [… Then] we marched SE [southeast]
through a hilly country yet fruitful in cornes e ayle e more populous then the
plaines of Gaffa10

Those coming from the north and south had the same impressions. John
Sanderson, following the northern route at the beginning of the century,
remarked that the meaning of the name Jenin in Arabic is paradise, and indeed
"so pleasant is this place and cituation that well may it be cauled paradice."11
Those coming from Hebron in the south were impressed by vineyards, fruit
orchards and vegetables grown in the valleys and plains.12

Disappointment and fear replaced elation as they entered the more

mountainous regions and climbed the steep valleys and hills. The wide and
comfortable roads of the plains gave way to narrow and rocky paths. The
northern road seemed more comfortable at first, but as it approached
Jerusalem the surface became so uneven that even mules and asses found it
hard to traverse.13 Those coming from Jaffa and Ramle encountered an even
more arduous journey. "We arrived at a very narrow valley, strewn with
boulders and pebbles" writes Jean Doubdan. "These are the bad roads that will
carry us almost as far as Jerusalem." This road was particularly difficult for the
cumbersome caravans coming from Egypt, as one traveler remarks: "[The way
was] very unsafe both for us and the camels which doe not agree to march
upon hard stony and uneven ground."14

Many travelers felt they were entering a dangerous, wild forest. Some had
visions of terrible beasts and wild half­naked barbarians. The tension and
mystery they felt on the way, (doubtless embellished and exaggerated for the
sake of their readers), heightened their expectations as they approached the
holy city.15
 Page 13

As night descended, they looked for a safe shelter to sleep in. Along the roads
there were several hostels, usually called khan by the locals, or kale (citadel)
by the Ottoman government. Some were ancient, dating back to Crusader or
Mamluk times, others were built or restored by the Ottomans with two
purposes in mind. They were both fortresses manned by a small garrison,
intended to secure the main routes, and inns for travelers, merchants and
pilgrims. In the eyes of Western guests they were very uncomfortable, nothing
more than a square court surrounded by stone walls. Travelers were not given
rooms or food, and had to settle for the relative security afforded by the walls
and the soldiers. 16

From time to time along the road, the travelers had to set up camp in one of
the villages. In larger ones they could sometimes find an Ottoman official or a
Christian monastery that would take them in, but in most cases they relied,
grudgingly at first, on the hospitality of villagers. D'Arvieux, a French nobleman
who served the local governing family of Turabay in the district of Lajjun for
several years, describes the system of village hospitality. In every village, he
writes, there is one sheikh who is appointed by the governors as headman.
This sheikh is ordered to erect a guesthouse, called a manzil. It is usually
situated near the sheikh's house, and has two levels. Visitors are supposed to
store their belongings and sleep on the higher level, and to tie up their mounts
on the lower level. No charge is required for the lavish hospitality. In return
these village headmen are exempted from certain taxes.17

As they would leave the village and return to the road, the travelers would
once again be seized by fear and tension, no doubt fueled by the frequent
appearance of armed horsemen demanding a sum of money as toll (ghafar, or
"caphare.") Described in almost every traveler's account, often gesturing with
their guns or spears, they had the appearance of desperate highway robbers.
Descriptions of Palestine throughout the Ottoman period abound in stories
about such adventures in which, miraculously, no one gets hurt. Sijill records,
however, suggest a different explanation. An event recorded in 1680 may
serve to elucidate this frequent misunderstanding:
When visitors to the graves of the holy prophets, and to [the grave of] our lord
al­Kalim, may he rest in peace18 ended their pilgrimage and intended to return
to their homes, news had reached them that a quarrel broke out between the
villagers of Bayt Iksa, and those of Bayt Liqya, both attached to the waqf of the
Khasikiyya.19 The apparent reason for the quarrel was the allocation of ghafar
payments. [The pilgrims were afraid that] if they returned [while this dispute
was going on] they would be attacked by brigands. They [decided] that they
cannot leave Jerusalem unless it was settled, since the road in
 Page 14

question is favored by highwaymen and other menaces (arbab al­makhafat wa­

l­takhwif.)

They asked the qadi, therefore, to summon both sides and solve this problem.
First the qadi summoned a representative of the Khasikiyya waqf, and the
supervisor (mutawalli) himself arrived. As the qadi instructed him, he brought
to court the headmen (al­mashayikh wa­l­mutakallimin) of both villages. To
the qadi's questions they replied that in the past both villages guarded the road,
and divided the tolls equally among those accustomed to receive them. The
dispute arose when a certain person from Bayt Liqya decided that he should
take all gains and was not prepared to share them with others in his own village,
or with the villagers of Bayt Iksa.

Having heard the evidence, the qadi instructed both sides to return to the old
arrangement, and to protect travelers from robbers along the stretch of road
passing through their villages. If anyone traveling on this road is robbed or
harmed in any way, the qadi warned, he would hold them responsible, and order
those in charge of the village to punish them. 20 In view of this decision both
sides declared a truce, and decided to divide the ghafar money equally between
the two villages. If anyone travelling on that road will lose anything, they
promised, they will either return it or reimburse him.21

Integrating villagers and bedouins into the road defence system in return for a
fee they had the right to collect from travelers on the road was apparently an
official Ottoman (or at least local) government policy. Sometimes these
villagers demanded more than they were allowed to, and from time to time real
robbers masqueraded as road guards, but in most cases ghafar was legal
payment for services rendered, and even imposed as a duty by the authorities.
But seeing the unruly villagers, their authoritative manner, and the lack of any
direct communication, gave rise to a myth of insecurity, violence and robbery
on the way to Jerusalem, repeated endlessly in travelers' accounts.

A bit shaken, but usually safe and sound, the travelers could finally see
Jerusalem from the hilltops surrounding it. They were struck by its stone walls,
and by the many domes, turrets and minarets. Excited and relieved they knelt
and prayed, and then hurried down to the city's imposing gates.

Physical Walls, Mental Walls

Any attempt to describe the city itself presents some of the questions debated
for many years under the general heading of "the Islamic city"—questions
 Page 15

related to the specific character of Islamic cities as opposed to non­Islamic

ones. A possible starting point for this debate is Max Weber's book, The City,
where he sets the "Western city" in opposition to other types of cities. In
Western and central Europe, he writes, cities emerged as a result of political
and economic forces. The outcome was the creation of a social structure—the
urban community—which is unique to the West, and almost unknown in other
cultures. Among the conditions leading to the creation of an urban community
were a predominance of trade and commercial relations, the existence of a
citadel or ramparts, a marketplace, courts of law possessing a degree of
autonomous jurisdiction, and at least partial political autonomy. 22

In the Orient many of these conditions existed, says Weber, but in most cases
cities had no administrative autonomy and lacked the ability to form urban
associations: "The city as corporateper se was unknown."23 This fact finds
expression in the physical layouts of Oriental cities. Communal associations in
the Islamic world were always on a narrower basis—guilds or neighborhoods.
Control was always in the hands of a monarch, through ministers or slaves, and
never transferred to notables or elders in the city. Even in the modern era,
when the Ottoman Empire reformed the municipal administration of Mecca, it
created some sort of balance between several authorities, but not a corporate
unity of the city itself. In the urban centers of the Orient, he concludes, the
urban community never existed as a framework.

From a relatively early stage, observers of Islamic cultures focused on three

issues suggested by Weber's formulation. One questioned the existence of a
municipal authority in the city. Another applied itself to corporate action, or to
questions pertaining to the emergence of an urban community in Muslim cities.
A third examined the layout of the city itself, and the way it reflects the social
realities of the city. Most observers did not distinguish between the three issues
in their research. Von Grünebaum, for instance, following the French historian
Marçais, concludes that Islamic cities had no municipal authority to guide them,
and that this was reflected in their appearance as a haphazard collection of
ethnic or religious neighborhoods. Since no frameworks existed for corporate
action on the municipal scale, this helter­skelter city design is typical of the
Islamic world.24

This attitude finds full expression in the writings of Ira Lapidus on Muslim cities
in the late Middle Ages. Looking at Cairo, Damascus and Aleppo in the
Mamluk period, Lapidus draws the conclusion that in these cities guilds and
Sufi brotherhoods were loosely knit organizations that did not provide a basis
for communal cooperation. Other types of organization, on a larger scale, were
practically nonexistent. In his opinion, any
 Page 16

kind of corporate feeling must have centered around the ulema ('ulama',) and
since the religion regarded politics as part of its responsibilities, the ulema
considered day­too­day administration in the city part of their duties. The
ulema were the only cohesive element inside the city, and conducted its affairs
through various networks of patronage and clientship. According to Lapidus
the most efficient networks were those that united people according to their
adherence to any one of four Islamic schools of jurisprudence (madhhabs.) If
any sort of organization can be found in these cities, it is therefore bound to be
along the lines of these networks. 25

In a later article Lapidus reaffirms his views on the Muslim city, and defines it
as a geographic location of social groups whose members and activities were
either greater or smaller in scope than the pale of the city itself. Cities were
physical entities, but not social bodies unified by typical Islamic qualities.26

In a recent article, Janet Abu­Lughod criticized this attitude. In books on the

Islamic city, she writes, one can find chains of transmission, like the ancient
isnads attesting to the authenticity of hadith statements. Most research works
on Islamic cities were based on a study of one case, or very few cases, in the
same region, Usually it does not examine the whole range of cities in the
Islamic cultural sphere. Many of these works, like those of von Grünebaum
and Marçais, draw on a distinct corpus of research—a North­African
paradigm that dates back to the period of French colonial rule of the Magreb.
Another ''chain of transmission" which includes, among others, the works of
Lapidus, focuses on the cities of Egypt and the Fertile Crescent. These two
distorted views of the Islamic city have created false images, and described
situations particular to one area as total truths pertaining to the totality of
Islamic culture.27

According to Abu­Lughod, the first doubts concerning these examples were

raised in a study by Hourani and Stern which undertook to examine the
concept of Islamic cities. In this work, which serves as a basis for her own
conclusions, Hourani and Stern pointed out the specificity of these earlier
examples, and mentioned several other Islamic cities that do not fit the
structures suggested by former researchers. Another critique of this reigning
paradigm appears in an essay by the anthropologist Dale Eickelman, suggesting
that instead of a sole Islamic model, there should be several different ones.28

Abu Lughod's own work focuses on the physical structure of the city. Cities
and quarters in which Muslims reside are easy to identify even in faraway
countries and in cultures that differ greatly from each other, she claims. This
should lead to the conclusion that Islam does have certain common features,
different from those that characterize other cultures. A city's structure is
influenced by its topography, the building materials
 Page 17

used, means of transportation, social organization and municipal legal codes.

Since topography, means of transportation and building materials are different
in every location, the domains relevant to an investigation of specifically Islamic
influences are social organization, and relevant Islamic legal systems. 29

Three dominant traits of Islamic cities stand out in these domains: separation of
religious communities, gender­oriented prohibitions, and the legal system
bearing on property. All Islamic cities therefore display a space laden with
semiotic meaning. The city's streets and houses are warning signs and
instructions, advising the stranger on the proper way to act.30

Cultural conditions separating between Muslims and other "people of the

Book" (mostly Christians and Jews, but later also Hindus, Buddhists, etc.) did
not evolve as a direct result of Islamic teachings, but rather as an outcome of
long periods of war and strife. It may therefore be categorized as an historical,
not an "Islamic," cultural phenomenon. Still, it is typical of almost all Islamic
cities. The second trait—gender prohibitions—is indeed uniquely Islamic in its
extent. Islam lays down strict rules of separation that minimize the possibility of
invading women's privacy even by sight, not just by physical or verbal contact.
The structure of the house, the location and shape of doors and windows, the
distance between houses, all these stem to a certain extent from the laws and
norms of separation.

The third trait—Islamic property laws—defines the priorities and rights in

urban planning. In the Islamic legal system, the owner himself has first priority
in designating urban space. His neighbors also have certain rights, mainly
concerning their own privacy, while the authorities have almost no rights at all.
When, at times, this distinct set of property laws was enforced by a weak
government, or a negligent administrative system, the obvious result was some
disorder: concealed approaches leading to the house became more important
than the main road itself, and the resulting chaos blurred what remained of the
original plan.

Abu Lughod concludes that the debate should be focused not on the typical
structure of "the Islamic city" but rather on the specific Islamic framework in
which such cities were established and governed, and which contributed to
their special character. Islamic cities vary a great deal, as regards their
structure, and the relationship between various functions within them, but the
shared historical and cultural heritage did create a measure of resemblance,
which unites all Islamic urban settlements.

Suraya Faroqhi adds another dimension to the debate. The importance

attributed to religion in defining the structure of the city is exaggerated, she
claims. It certainly has a role in defining the shape and structure of
 Page 18

buildings and cities, but ascribing so much importance to religion implies that
there are no real changes over time in moral and social normative systems.
Such an assumption renders all social history meaningless. There is no doubt
that significant changes have occurred in relation to morality and society
throughout Islamic history. These changes were reflected in the structure and
administration of cities, and even of single houses. Modern research should
examine these changes, and lay aside the discussion of perennial aspects of
religion and culture. 31

In order to put these contrasting views in focus, let us now turn to a description
of Jerusalem as one example of an Islamic city. It is true that the city itself was
not founded in the Islamic era. Its general layout was determined many years
before it was conquered by Islam. During the long period of Islamic rule Jews
and Christians were a significant part of the population, and influenced the
city's form and its functions. The centers of meaning and gravity inside the city
were dictated to a certain extent by its topography. Still, Jerusalem was (and
is) a holy Islamic city, and many of its inhabitants were Muslim ulema and
clerics committed to upholding the tenets of Islamic religion and culture. In light
of the data gathered about the city, we can begin to address the questions
posed by modern research concerning the Islamic city—did its physical
structure reflect its Islamic character? Was it an "urban community" as defined
by Weber, or just a conglomerate of streets and houses, a geographical
accident that did not correspond to any social body, as Lapidus describes it?
Did the Ottoman government maintain some sort of a municipal administrative
system, or was the city run by its inhabitants according to patronage lines?
Following the city's description, we may resume the thread of the debate and
try to answer some of these questions.

Rebuilt by Kanuni Sultan Süleyman (the Magnificent) in the mid­sixteenth

century, the walls around the city of Jerusalem still stood high and imposing a
century later. From descriptions made by travelers and from local documents,
it appears that the wall was still seen as an efficient means of defending the city
and its inhabitants. One traveler, later thrown into jail on suspicion of being a
spy, describes the fortifications around the city:
Upon the south side of Jerusalem there is a great iron gate whereon are planted
seventeen pieces of Brass Cannon and is as large as the West gate of the
Tower of London, the walls being very thick and fifty eight or sixty foot high.
The North wall is not so strong and hath been often surprised but the South
nearer on the East is impregnable, the bow of the hill on which the wall standeth
being five times higher than it; on the North wall are 25 pieces of brass
 Page 19

cannon near the gate which is also of iron; the East gate, a little without which
St. Stephen was stoned, is to this day called by his name; there are five pieces
of Cannon planted between the ruines of Port Aurea, or the Golden Gate, and
the West Gate through which I first entred and where I saw fifteen pieces of
Cannon more to secure it, which are iron as the rest. To conclude, Jerusalem is
the strongest City that I saw in all my travels from Grand Cairo hither. 32

The big gates were locked and bolted at sunset, and gate­keepers were placed
at every entrance to make sure no one entered without inspection. Even during
daytime entrance to the city was controlled. Christian and Jewish pilgrims were
not allowed to enter by themselves. They had to unbuckle their swords and
hold them in their hands, and to await formal escort. Sometimes they were
received and escorted by the city's police officer, the sobashi.33 In other
cases the heads of their congregations were allowed to welcome the guests
and accompany them on their way into the city. Visitors belonging to sects who
had no representation in the city sometimes identified themselves as members
of other sects and requested their protection. The defence expert mentioned
above, a ship's captain by trade, was thrown in jail when, too proud to
pretend, declared he was an Englishman, "for the Turks absolutely denied that
they had ever heard either of my prince or my country, or that they paid any
tribute."34

Unknown Muslims also had to go through some identification process before

they were allowed to enter. Dhimmis (non­Muslims living in Islamic lands) and
harbis (non­Muslims from non­Muslim lands) had to pay entrance fees.
Complaints were sometimes sent to the Sublime Porte in Istanbul, requesting a
diminution of the fee.35

Both the Ottoman central government and the local administration saw the
maintenance and defence of the wall as an important task. At the beginning of
the century several firmans (Imperial decrees) were sent to the local governor,
instructing him to rebuild parts of the wall. In the city itself the qadi made sure
the wall was maintained as the city's main defence. It seems that the inhabitants
themselves appreciated the importance of the wall and the measure of security
it afforded:
On the 20th of Rabi' al­awwal 1033 (24 Jan. 1624) several people, including the
governor Muhammad Pasha, the mufti (jurisconsult) Zakariyya efendi, the
khatib (preacher) in al­Aqsa, the mi'mar bashi (chief architect) in the city,36
and many others, came to court, and reported to the qadi that several Christians
in the city built their houses contiguous to the wall. They claimed that these
structures may undermine the city's security. Having checked the implications,
the qadi instructed all inhabitants of the city to build their houses
 Page 20

at a distance of four dhira' (yards 37 ) from the wall. Houses touching the wall
will be destroyed, he warned, and their owners will be flogged seventy times.38

A month later, however, several people returned to court, among them sheikh
al­suq (head of the market) and several soldiers in the local citadel. They
reported that Gregor, the Armenian archbishop (mutran), was among the
people whose houses were adjacent to the wall, and as a result of the former
decree part of his house was destroyed. Since then, they said, thieves and
bandits have picked the narrow passage near archbishop Gregor's house as
their favorite spot. They lurk there day and night, and attack innocent passers­
by. The qadi therefore issued another decree, permitting the Armenian
dignitary to rebuild his house at that spot. There may have been other reasons
for the new decision. Perhaps it was bought with Armenian money, But the
exception demonstrates only that as a rule these new regulations were
enforced, houses were demolished, and the testimony of Muslim witnesses was
a necessary prerequisite to changing the former decision.39

What was it that motivated the Ottoman government, the city's local rulers, and
the rest of the population, to be so adamant about the wall? Why did they
invest so much time and money to maintain and rebuild it? One possible
answer is the fear of bedouin attacks on the city. The Ottoman government
saw Jerusalem as a city on the desert's edge, in need of protection from
nomadic assaults. But such assaults did not occur in seventeenth­century
Jerusalem, and local authorities were usually on good terms with the bedouins.
Another possible motivation, and one that seems closer to the truth, is the fear
of a resurgence of the Crusades, or of a premeditated Christian attack on the
city.

A major cause for concern in the eyes of the Ottoman government at the
beginning of the century was the aspiring young Lebanese amir, Fakhr al­Din
al­Ma'ni (the Second). A letter sent by Pindar, the English ambassador in
Istanbul, in 1614 echoes this Ottoman concern. At that time Ottoman agents
reported that the rebellious amir, who found shelter in the court of Tuscany in
Italy, prepares to gather a fleet and return to the Lebanon, where he will recruit
an army, and set out to conquer Palestine and Jerusalem. Such apprehensions
were augmented by news of the establishment of a new religious­military order
in Tuscany, specifically intended to lead the new crusade. The Ottoman fleet,
writes ambassador Pindar, is deployed along the Lebanese coastline to prevent
a landing, but if such a landing were to take place in spite of these efforts,
instructions were sent to the pasha of Damascus. He is to go to Jerusalem and
expel
 Page 21

all monks and priests residing there, apparently to prevent their acting as a fifth
column to help the rebel's forces when they reach the city:
They are in great jealousie of some intendment by the Christians to assist the
Emir of Sydon and therefore they have well guarded those seacosts to prevent
his landing, and the cheife imployment of the Captan Bassaw (the Ottoman
admiral) is to withstand anie sea forces may be sent with him, which is causing
of his goeing out two monthes sooner then was accustomed. And in the meane
time for fear of anie practice by the Christian princes about the Hollie land (as
this conceipt is raysed because of the Emir of Sydon, if he weare established
againe in his conntry) the Bassa (governor) of Damascus hath order to goe to
Jerusalem and to turn out all the friars and Christians, and to prohibitt all
secoors hether of pilgrims or other. 40

Threats posed by the recalcitrant Lebanese amir continued to bother the

Ottoman government in Istanbul, Damascus and Jerusalem for several
decades. In 1623 Fakhr al­Din did in fact invade the Palestinian coastal plain,
and was stopped only by a coalition of local forces on the banks of the Yarkon
('Ujja) river, not far from Jaffa. Even in the thirties, until his defeat, and finally
his execution in 1635, the amir and his armies posed a threat to the Ottoman
center. The authorities and the local population in Jerusalem, as in many other
parts of the empire, were united by fear of a renewed crusade led by the amir,
aimed at the reestablishment of Christendom in Jerusalem.

Local rulers—the governors of Jerusalem—were aware of this clear and

present danger. The tribulations suffered by a French consul who arrived in the
city in 1623 attest to this pervasive fear and suspicion. Jean Lempereur had
obtained his nomination as consul in Jerusalem after a protracted series of
negotiations by the French ambassador to the Porte. Bearing a royal Ottoman
decree he proceeded to the city with an impressive entourage, and finally
presented his credentials to a haughty and reserved local qadi. He was allowed
to reside in the Christian neighborhood, provided he would pay at some later
date a sum of money promised in the decree.41

Before long the new consul found himself at odds with the governor and the
qadi. Lempereur thought the reason was the governor's greed and his own
insistence on the rights of French merchants in Ramle. But in a letter he sent to
the king of France on the 20th of November 1624 he claimed that the
governor undermines his position, alleging that he is cooperating with the amir
Fakhr al­Din, and that he intends to deliver the city of Jerusalem into his hands.
The governor, writes Lempereur, managed to convince his superiors in the
provincial capital. They in turn
 Page 22

sent a contingent of twenty horsemen to detain the consul and fetch him to
Damascus, where he was made to pay a large ransom. It seems, then, that this
new crusade created real, tangible fears, that could be manipulated by the local
governor. It may also have been, of course, the real reason for the consul's
deportation, and there might have been an element of truth in the allegations. 42

Fear of a renewed crusade was pervasive in the Muslim community of

Jerusalem throughout the century. Doubdan, who visited the city many years
later, describes a riot sparked by restoration work in the convent of the Holy
Saviour (St. Sauveur) in 1652. In the course of repairs local Muslim
construction workers began to excavate under the convent. Several ancient
rooms were discovered, and soon rumors began to circulate. The inhabitants
of the city, already suspicious of the monks who "were building a castle in
order to destroy the city, and by this means would soon become our masters"
told stories of a long tunnel being dug by the Christians. Through these tunnels,
the rumor persisted, Christian armies will invade the city. Some said these
tunnels led to Jaffa, and others thought they may lead to Malta, to the fortress
of the knights of St. John, their formidable enemies.43

Alongside the physical walls of the city, then, another set of walls was
erected—mental walls that blocked out other cultures, other ideas. The Muslim
population of Jerusalem saw in every Christian action a hidden meaning, in
every Western idea a Trojan horse carrying the avant­garde of a new crusade.
The Christian population of Jerusalem was suspected of being a potential fifth
column, waiting for an opportunity to betray the city. These suspicions
competed with the traditional Muslim attitude of tolerance towards the "people
of the Book", set higher sectarian walls, and hampered interconfessional
relations. Each community led its own life, integrating with all others in trade
and the labor market, but shunning intellectual contact.44

Events that left a deep impression on one community—the miracles and

wonders of the Sufi sheikh Muhammad al­'Alami, the mystic Lurian Kabbala
developed in the Jewish communities of Safad and Jerusalem, the rise and fall
of the false messiah Shabbetai Zevi, the original reform ideas of Cyril Lukaris
debated by the Greek­Orthodox church in Jerusalem—echoes of all these
hardly penetrated the walls of suspicion, and failed to leave a lasting impression
on the culture and life of neighboring communities. In this state of affairs the
physical separation of these communities was accentuated, and each
community preferred to enclose itself in its own perimeter.
 Page 23

The City and its Internal Division

The territory demarcated by the walls in the seventeenth century is almost

identical to the area of today's walled city of Jerusalem. Only minor changes in
the gates and walls were carried out since the restoration of the walls by Sultan
Süleyman, apparently as part of his millennarian campaign. 45 The city's
population was relatively small. On the basis of demographic data from the
previous century, it can be assumed that the population did not exceed ten
thousand inhabitants throughout the century. Maps drawn by travelers and
pilgrims, though inaccurate, convey a sense of large open spaces, and no
density of population anywhere in the city.

In a research based on sixteenth century Ottoman tax surveys,46 Amnon

Cohen and Bernard Lewis have found that whereas in the Mamluk period the
city's quarters had some homogeneous character based on ethnic communities
or social distinctions, this state of affairs gave way to a much more
heterogeneous mix, both socially and ethnically, at the beginning of the
Ottoman period. They attribute this mainly to the influx of immigrants from
other parts of the empire. This situation began to change a century or so after
the conquest. Quarter perimeters were still not clearly defined, the area was
not yet divided into the four distinct quarters characteristic of today's walled
city, but some sort of division along ethnic and religious, as well as social lines,
did emerge.47

Confessional neighborhoods evolved around the religious centers of meaning in

the city. The Muslim population gathered around the Haram (Temple mount),
mainly in the northeastern areas. The Christians tended to buy and build their
houses around the Holy Sepulcher convent, and when the Franciscan convent
moved from Mount Zion to this area in the mid­sixteenth century, another
center of meaning drew Christians together. Armenian Christians preferred the
vicinity of their own convent in the southwestern part of the city. The Jews
found themselves, whether by default or because they chose to reside near the
Wailing wall, in the southern neighborhoods: al­Sharaf, al­Maslakh and al­
Risha.

This division, though recognized by all inhabitants, was not strictly adhered to,
or imposed. Muslims resided (or at least bought and rented houses) in all
quarters. The sijill contains numerous sales deeds in which Jews and Muslims,
including some wealthy notables of the local elite, buy houses in Jewish
neighborhoods, either from Jews or from other Muslims. No limitation was
imposed on Christians or Jews wishing to buy houses in Muslim
neighborhoods, but most preferred the safety of their own communities. As a
result of growing tensions, the process of sectarian separation was apparently
in one of its active stages.48
 Page 24

As in the city of Aleppo a century later, people had close ties with their
neighbors, cooperating in law suits against "immoral" residents of the quarter or
corrupt officials, but in contrast to the seemingly structured Aleppine quarter, in
Jerusalem this communal action did not correspond to any administrative unit.
It appeared to be a spontaneous reaction to circumstances, shared between
several neighbors, who decided to take action on their own initiative. 49

It is harder to determine whether neighborhoods reflected social or economic

differences. Did all members of the elite prefer to reside in the same areas?
Were some areas considered more aristocratic than others? At first sight the
sijill seems to suggest that people of every economic and social background,
including villagers, bought houses everywhere, but in this respect evidence in
the sijill might be misleading. Buying a house, or part of one, was sometimes a
mere investment, motivated by economic considerations, and did not always
reflect people's preferences in choosing their home. Local notables saw
immovables as a relatively safe investment, and bought houses and courtyards
in quantity. The shari'a's partnership laws also made it possible for people to
invest in tiny fragments of such property. Townspeople, as well as villagers and
even total strangers, could, for example, buy one qirat—one part in twenty­
four—of a luxurious, well­situated house, which would then be rented out,
providing a steady income. These purchases reflected neither the buyer's
status, nor his choice of residence.

Still, there are indications of alignment along economic and social lines, at least
in the Muslim community. This can be gleaned both from the recorded
inheritance of deceased inhabitants of the city, and from large auctions of
property, usually offered for sale by wives and daughters who inherited houses
and wished to sell them. In some cases it is clear from lists of furniture and
personal belongings attached to the record, that the house being sold was
indeed the main residence of the family. This can also supply further evidence
about its economic and social status.

The considerable diversity of such records implies that neighborhoods in

themselves in fact had no homogeneity, and that their borders did not define
social or economic strata. Rich and poor, high and low, lived in the same
areas. On the other hand, they indicate some sort of socio­economic
differentiation within certain neighborhoods, in relation to the area's proximity
to centers of meaning. Wealthier people tended to live closer to their sacred
shrines. In predominantly Muslim areas, a house closer to the Haram was
apparently preferred. The farther away from the Haram, the less attractive, and
probably the less wealthy the neighborhood.
 Page 25

Rich and influential notables bought houses near the gates leading to al­Aqsa
and to the Dome of the Rock. Others resided in houses looking into the
Haram. Thus, the wealthy 'Asali family bought a house "straddling the Gate of
the Chain" (Bab al­Silsila) close to the Kaitbay madrasa. Another notable
endowed as waqf a house in the same area which was formerly the private
residence of Musa Pasha ibn Ridwan, a governor of Gaza and Jerusalem.
Many notables lived in Bab Hutta, close to the northern gates of the Haram,
while others chose the eastern parts of Bab al­'Amud, along the alleys leading
to the mosques. 50

Urban Control and the Public Domain

City life flowed around several religious and administrative centers. Separate
sectarian cohesion was maintained and reproduced in religious institutions—
mosques, Sufi lodges, churches, convents and synagogues. These were not just
places of worship and prayer. In many cases they hosted a whole spectrum of
community life. In a short treatise written by Abu al­Fath al­Dajjani, a
seventeenth­century scholar, about the deplorable state of al­Aqsa and other
mosques, the purist Sunni author describes the haram as a place of worldly
pursuits and enjoyment, condemning women's gossip, petition writing, singing
and dancing, selling and buying. The haram has even become a playground for
little children and a meadow for grazing sheep, he complains.51 The same was
true, to a smaller extent, in regard to the Holy Sepulcher, and to other convents
and synagogues, where Jewish or Christian congregations met to discuss
religious, as well as worldly matters, and to celebrate holidays, holy days and
festivals.

The "secular" life of the city revolved around a different set of institutions.52
These institutions, though representing Muslim rule and superiority, tended to
be more tolerant towards other religions, and allowed a greater deal of social
and economic interaction between the communities. First and foremost among
them was the shari'a court (majlis al­shar' al­sharif, literally: "the council of
the noble law"). This establishment, at the entrance to the haram, near the gate
of the chain (Bab al­Silsila) contained the qadi's court. The range of its
activities and responsibilities, however, transcended that of any Western
equivalent. In fact the district qadi was also acting mayor in charge of municipal
planning, maintenance, social welfare and hygiene; chief notary; police
commissioner; and part­time purser for the Ottoman government. A
description by the Ottoman traveler Evliya Çelebi, may reflect some of the
shari'a court's responsibilities:

Twenty agas53 serve by Imperial decree under the molla of Jerusalem.54 The
first is the muhzir basi who was appointed by the Sultan in an
 Page 26

official ceremony. He is in charge of keeping the gates at night, and is aided in

his duties by Imperial forces. The second aga is the su naziri, (supervisor of
water supply). The third aga is the mimar basi, in charge of construction and
repairs. The fourth is the mühendisbasi chief engineer). The fifth is the
mu'temedbasi (chief purser). The sixth is the sarrafbasi, head of the money
changers, who pays the ulema their yearly Sultanic grant. The seventh aga is
the veznedarbasi (treasurer). The eighth is the subasi (in charge of public
order). The ninth is the bazarbasi (market supervisor). The tenth is the sehir
Kethüdasi (city deputy) and the eleventh is the bezazistan kethüdasi (deputy
in charge of the inner market). Finally, every day all heads of merchant guilds
(esnafin seyhleri) present themselves at the council to perform their duties. 55

It is well known that Evliya's writing tends to exaggerate and embellish, and
cannot be considered an accurate description. Furthermore, few of the officers
he mentioned appear in any capacity in the period's sijills, but as an overview
of the shar&imacr:'a court, Evliya's description is not totally inaccurate. Sijill
records describe the court's involvement in almost an spheres of activity
mentioned: the qadi used to send his chief architect to examine requests for
building, restoration and demolition, and granted authorizations on the basis of
his reports. The city's economic activity was coordinated by his court with the
head of the market (shaykh al­suq), the market supervisor (muhtasib),56 the
scales supervisor (kayyal bashi) and the head of the merchants (shaykh al­
tujjar), who represented all merchants and artisans. Special teams of
investigation, made up of the local police officer (subashi), the court summons
officer (muhdir bashi) and court scribes, were sent to investigate crimes and
filed reports. The court served as purser and treasurer for the government in
some matters of tax collection, and in payments made by the central
government to officials and notables in the City.57

Other affairs were conducted in the court building itself. Court cases ranged
from theft and murder, to requests for welfare charity and child custody.
Contracts and sales deeds were signed in the presence of the qadi and his
aides, Marriage agreements were recorded, and divorce cases settled.
Representatives of the population came to court to protest against corruption
and misrule, and local governors chose the same establishment to convene
notables and plebs. Villagers came there to pay their taxes, and dhimmis
(Christians and Jews) followed suit to pay the poll tax (jizya ) imposed on
them.58

It is evident, therefore, that defining majlis al­shar' al­sharif as a mere court

of law, does not take into account the immense range of public and
 Page 27

municipal activities conducted there in the Ottoman period (at least until the
mid­nineteenth century). Although this institution will be referred to as the
''shari'a court," it must be borne in mind that this was the city's main social
establishment, and that it wielded considerable political influence within and
beyond the city's walls.

Another institution of central economic and social importance was the market
or bazaar. The marketplace in Jerusalem, as in most other Ottoman cities, was
a well­organized, ordered exchange, supervised by the authorities. The market
directed and defined the economic life of Christians, Muslims and Jews, who
were sometimes members of joint commercial or artisanal unions. Slaves and
servants traded there alongside members of local and governing elites.
Janissary soldiers shared their meals with humble artisans. The market was a
source for contagious rumors and a testing ground for economic policies.

The marketplace was therefore a stage set for confrontations of different social
groups, where brawls and riots broke out. It was also the means for many to
cross the social divide and move upwards. Making money through trade or
manufacture was almost a prerequisite for social mobility. The market provided
shelter for runaway slaves, unemployed soldiers, or villagers escaping
exploitation by their landlords. The market was one of the main links between
the city and its surrounding villages and bedouin tribes. Yet this was also a
clearly structured and hierarchical institution, where villager, townsman and
bedouin each had their place and function, where each recognized his role in an
ancient order. 59

A leading social welfare role was fulfilled by the Khasikiyya waqf. This was in
fact a complex of institutions large soup kitchens, stores, schools, hostels and
mosques, dedicated in 1552 by Khaseki Hürrem Sultan, wife of Sultan
Süleyman the Magnificent. The Khasikiyya, aimed at providing welfare for the
inhabitants of Jerusalem, was the largest waqf ever established in Palestine.
Scores of villages, in the vicinity of the city and even as far north as the vilayet
of Tripoly (Tarablus al­Sham) in Lebanon, paid their taxes directly to the
waqf's officials. Many of the city's poorer inhabitants, alongside some of the
not­so­poor 'ulama, received a daily plate of food from the waqf's kitchens
('imara.) Determining the right to such a daily portion (tasa min al­ta'am) was
part of the qadi's duties.60

In addition to its social role, the waqf also played an important part in the city's
economy. Its supervisors operated flourmills, olive and sesame oil presses, and
bakeries. Many guilds sold most of their produce to the waqf. These
supervisors and comptrollers determined the city's economy to a large extent.
The sheer numbers of ledgers, letters and firmans concerning the waqf in the
sijill and in Istanbul's archives attest to its importance in the eyes of the
Ottoman authorities. Although the institution
 Page 28

seems to have declined at the end of the seventeenth century, a Damascene

visitor to Jerusalem at the end of the century describes it as a thriving and
dynamic institution:

Then we passed by the Khasiki Takiya, 61 famous in and around Jerusalem.

We have found it full of goods and good deeds, its flourmill spinning on its
hinge, and all its stores standing proud, brimming with charity and mercy.62

Like the local market, the Khasikiyya waqf institutionalized the relations
between the city and its rural hinterland. Khasikiyya officials bought large
quantities of food and firewood from neighboring villages. Other villagers were
paid to collect and purchase commodities for the waqf. Villagers were
suppliers, either by law or by concession, but never eligible for welfare support
themselves. This was reserved for townspeople. Like the market, therefore,
the waqf functioned as both an intersection of city and village, and as a clear
demarcation of the boundaries between them.

A lesser­known establishment was the hospital, al­bimaristan al­salahi,

named after its founder, salah al­Din al­Ayyubi (Saladin).63 Travelers and
pilgrims do not mention the hospital, perhaps because the Christian and Jewish
communities had other, smaller facilities. Information about it in Muslim sources
is also scant, and in our period it might have declined. But several records in
the sijill indicate that towards mid­century there was at least one attempt to
restore the hospital and renew its function:
On the 6th of Sha'ban 1045 (15 January 1636) sheikh 'Umar ibn 'Abd al­Samad,
the supervisor of waqf al­bimaristan al­salahi, arrived in court, and informed
the qadi that parts of the hospital are ruined, and urgently in need of repair. At
his request the qadi appointed a team, including a surveyor (na'ib al­kashf) and
the chief architect, to examine the building.

The team found out that new gates are needed for the staircase, and restoration
work is necessary in bayt al­marda (the sick bay) and bayt al­majanin (the
mental institution.) Partial restoration is needed in bayt al­mughtasal (the
laundry/ bath) and bayt al­kahhalin (the eye clinic). Four iwans (recess­like
sitting rooms) have partially disintegrated, and so have the stone benches at
the entrance. Other rooms are filled with dirt and garbage. The mu'allim (master
builder) 'Abd al­Muhsin was brought over, and estimated the overall cost at 552
ghurosh.64 [Prices are listed for each item on the list].

In view of this report the qadi allowed the mutawalli to carry on with the
restoration, and to pay the necessary costs from the waqf's funds as a first
priority.65
 Page 29

The principles guiding this institution, the social groups admitted or treated, are
unknown, but the bimaristan had been part of the Muslim urban community in
Jerusalem for quite some time, providing medical care for a variety of physical
and mental problems.

The main public social pastime in male society was coffee drinking, which had
caught on at the end of the sixteenth century, in defiance offatwas and
imperial decrees banning or denouncing the new custom. The sijill records
many apparently prosperous coffee houses, where tobacco and hashish soon
became part of the scene. The sources do not provide any information on the
clientele of these establishments, but owners seem to have come from several
social groups: ulema, officers and government officials, artisans and merchants.
In light of Ralph Hattox's research on coffee and coffee houses in the Ottoman
Empire, it can be assumed that here too the coffee house served as a meeting
place for all levels of urban society, at least in the Muslim community, and
functioned as part­time literary salon and local news network. 66

Private Homes, Their Structure and Contents

The Muslim house in seventeenth­century Jerusalem retained its traditional

style, uninfluenced by Western building traditions. The house itself, its furniture,
housewares and ornaments, were part of a coherent social culture, influenced
by Islam and by other ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean traditions.

Most of the houses in Jerusalem and in neighboring towns were built of stone,
coated with plaster on the inside. In this respect local masonry was well
developed and advanced in comparison to other cultures where, as Braudel
notices, cheaper and less durable wooden houses were erected.67 Poorer
people, however, lived in very small houses, usually in one room. Travelers
often had the impression that buildings were unstable, and on the verge of
collapse. Sijill documents frequently refer to such small houses or rooms,
usually called bayt, to set them apart from the bigger house, the dar which
sometimes included several buyot of different sizes.

Affluent houses included many rooms, balconies, kitchens and lavatories. They
were often built in two stories, the first sometimes serving as a stable for horses
and mules. Rich houses would include a cellar or storeroom to keep stocks of
food and other commodities, as well as water reservoirs and storage tanks for
oil in their courtyards. Some houses had patios and rose gardens, and even
ornate water­fountains. Yet even these upper­class houses were not built in
pompous style, or as Morison comments, referring to the governor's mansion:
"A French bourgeois would consider himself badly lodged" (un bourgeois de
France s'estimerait mal logé).
 Page 30

In large houses roofs were constructed as domes of stone, while in smaller

ones flat roofs were built, leaning on several wooden beams. In many houses a
short parapet was constructed on the roof, where people stored things,
worked, and sometimes slept in summer. Most roofs were slightly pitched to
allow rainwater to flow into underground reservoirs.

Inside, houses were divided by a partition, preferably a wall or a patio, but in

poorer houses by a drape or a sheet, into an external sphere—the salamlik
(selamlik in Turkish) and an internal one—the harim, or haramlik (haremlik
in Turkish). 68 This division into two well­defined spheres is sometimes
described as separating the male/public and the female/private areas of the
house, but as Leslie Peirce has shown in her work on the imperial harem, this
division is somewhat misleading, and conventional Western notions of public
and private are not necessarily congruent with division by gender.69 In
governing households the haramlik was usually the center of public
administration, and both domains were at one and the same time forbidden to
some, open to others, and under legal and moral public scrutiny.

In wealthier houses, shared by several mature women—with their husbands

and sons—each would have separate quarters, sometimes joined together by a
courtyard, where women would meet to work or discuss things. Movement
between the haramlik and the salamlik in the presence of male visitors was
strictly forbidden to anyone but the husband or father and small children. When
no male visitors were around, everyone apparently moved freely inside the
house.

Travelers coming to Jerusalem described the terrible revenge of husbands

against strangers who dared cross the sacred line.70 Yet, oddly enough, there
is little mention of such cases in the sijill, and most of those mentioned occur in
villages outside the city. In some cases the investigators chose not to indict the
possible perpetrator, possibly because the motive was justified at least by
norm and custom, if not by law. But an investigation of some sort was always
carried out in cases of death caused by unnatural causes, even when believed
to have been an accident. Apparently stories about the frequent slaying of
wives and suspected male lovers was more a myth perpetuated as a means of
socialization than an actual practice, at least in the city.

The strict demand for boundary definitions separating external and internal
found expression in entrances and doorways. These were often located in
alleys and cul­de­sacs branching off from the main road. Windows had no
panes in most cases, and those located in women's quarters had screens of
wood (mashrabiyya) to hide them from view, and yet allow the women
themselves to look outside. Alleged sightlines of indecent views from windows
and roofs were often cause for a lawsuit
 Page 31

or a complaint to the qadi. When winter came, inhabitants of the city filled their
windows with wood and sawdust to keep out the cold. Heating in most cases
was provided by earthenware bowls of coal placed in the middle of the room.

Furniture did not vary greatly between rich and poor, but there were some
differences between Muslims on the one hand, and Christians and Jews on the
other. Muslim homes displayed relatively few items of wooden or metal
furniture. Records of inheritance in the sijill do not mention wooden or metal
beds, tables or chairs. In some Christian and Jewish houses, however, tables
and chairs were part of the furniture. These items did not become part of the
Muslim house until the nineteenth century. 72

Braudel, who discusses this basic difference, stresses the existence of two
different cultures that merge only seldom. In fact, the only place where the two
furnishing styles coexisted was China, which apparently adopted desks and
chairs in the sixth century, but chose to use them for separate functions and to
retain the old "Oriental"­style furniture. In Jerusalem, where both styles
remained side by side for centuries and did not merge, the existence of an
entrenched cultural attitude is manifest.73 Braudel does not provide an
explanation for the apparent inability of these two different styles to coexist. In
the local context, however, one reason may be a distinct Muslim problem.
Dividing the house into two distinct parts, haramlik and salamlik, and
sometimes having to accommodate several women, meant that each room
would have to serve for numerous functions. The use of traditional "soft"
furniture allowed for swift changes in room functions: eating, entertaining,
sleeping, and so on. Introduction of "hard" wooden or metal furniture would
have meant assigning one major function to each room, and hence reducing the
already limited flexibility of the house. Jews and Christians, who were not
subject to such strict norms of gender separation, and many of whom had
strong cultural contacts with Europe, adopted such styles more readily.

Most Muslim houses—whether belonging to janissary officers, ulema,

governing families or ra'aya (reaya in Turkish: all those of nonelite status)—
included mainly items of cloth and wool. Carpets, stuffed pillows, sheets and
blankets. The rich would sleep on mattresses laid out on stone benches. During
the day, ornate silk, velvet or cotton pillows would be placed on these
benches. Wooden or metal chests, sometimes bound in leather, contained
clothes, books, cutlery and other expensive items.74 China plates, bowls and
cups were common in rich houses, earthenware in others. In most cases no
forks and few spoons are mentioned in inheritance cases. Several knives,
mostly silver, were used to prepare food before it was served. Pots and pans
were made of copper or clay. Several records indicate that it was fashionable
to use plates elevated on a "heel"
 Page 32

to serve food. Many houses contained elaborate tobacco­smoking implements

and candleholders. Foodstuffs were usually kept in large clay pots, sometimes
covered by ash to preserve their contents. 75

Books and manuscripts were relatively rare. They appear in several inheritance
records, mainly in houses of ulema and governors. All the books mentioned
were religious, mostly having to do with Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh ). This may
reflect the small numbers of literate people in society, although taking into
account the high prices of manuscripts few people could afford them even
when they knew how to read and write. Governors and members of the ruling
elite were also mostly literate, and some displayed a keen interest in poetry.76

Islam and the City

Picking up the thread of debate about the nature of Islamic cities, we should
now try to see how Jerusalem's structure and layout conform to these ideas
and whether they contribute to our understanding of the "Islamic city."

In the three major issues debated—the city's management, the existence of an

urban community, and the physical layout—different, sometimes contradictory
answers emerge. The city's layout was influenced to a considerable extent by
Islamic cultural and social norms. The structure of houses, the location of
doorways and windows, the spatial relations between houses, the creation of
semiprivate alleys, the process of separation into distinct quarters—all these
were determined by cultural and legal norms, and by historical processes
influenced by these norms. They lent the city a distinct Islamic character,
leaving its clear imprint on the ancient Roman­Byzantine layout.

The Muslim majority in the city undoubtedly felt a bond to an urban

community, distinct from the villages around it, and stronger even than small­
scale corporate entities like guilds or madhhabs. It was founded upon the city's
status as a holy shrine, symbolized by the wall engulfing the city and separating
it from its surroundings. It fed on a recurring fear of Christian crusade. These
common bonds gave rise to corporate urban activities—complaints to the qadi
about the state of the wall, protest against Western consuls, and finally, a sense
of solidarity demonstrated in the Naqib al­Ashraf revolt at the beginning of the
eighteenth century. The revolt, an uprising against the governor appointed by
the central government, united the inhabitants of the city. They bolted the
gates,, and endured the hardship of siege and starvation for two years.77

To what extent did this urban community include Jews and Christians? In most
cases, it seems, they looked on as bystanders, sometimes in fear,
 Page 33

sometimes identifying themselves with their neighbors. Their bond to the

predominantly Muslim urban community was probably weaker than their
attachment to their own religious communities. They were discriminated
against, had to pay extra taxes, and sometimes despised and ridiculed by the
Muslim population. The shadow of a crusade, hovering above, did not permit
any detente. Yet there are indications that Christians and Jews did see
themselves as part of the urban community. They frequented the qadi's court,
and did not hesitate to file complaints against members of their own
community, or even against Muslims. They were members of guilds, and
sometimes even elected to head them. Finally, during the revolt, there are
indications that Christians sided with the rebels and helped them fight the
governor's forces.

On the third question—the existence of municipal administration—the evidence

is unequivocal. Seventeenth­century Jerusalem is characterized by an
impressive array of municipal services, orchestrated by the qadi and his aides.
The shari'a court dealt with all municipal problems: construction and
demolition, hygiene, waste disposal, taxation, security, public order, market
supervision, maintenance of water supply and social welfare. Other institutions,
among them a charity waqf and a public hospital, cooperated in this urban
project. Finally, frequent complaints by notables and others recorded in the
sijill suggest that a measure of feedback and accountability existed between
the urban community and the authorities.

We may conclude that Jerusalem was indeed peculiarly Islamic in many

respects, and that its design and organization do reflect the existence of a
coherent urban community, at least as far as the Muslim majority was
concerned. Although the period under consideration was a time of contraction,
it appears that in other centuries this urban community expanded to include
minorities as well. Inasmuch as it reflects the Islamic influence on urban centers
as a whole, Jerusalem indicates that Islamic civilizations did manage to shape
their own special kind of city, and their own type of urban community.
 Index

  
 Page 35

Chapter 2
The Rise and Fall of Local Dynasties
When Jerusalem was conquered in 1517, the Ottoman Empire was a highly
centralized bureaucratic state. Its power emanated from the sultan and his
household, and filtered down to governors, administrators and military
commanders throughout the realm. In the province of Damascus, as in all other
provinces, the Ottoman center played a major role in regulating subjects' lives,
their economy, security, public order, religion and social welfare. In the course
of the first century of Ottoman rule, however, this state of affairs changed
radically. A series of disruptions known collectively as the "Celali revolts," and
the insurrections of mutinous pashas in eastern Anatolia, from around 1590 to
the middle of the following century, made communications between the
Anatolian center and the Arab provinces much more difficult. 1 Coupled with
changes of emphasis in the government itself, these developments encouraged
centrifugal tendencies, and centralized government gave way to a much more
decentralized system. One of the main consequences was the seizure of actual
control of the provinces by local governing families, known in the Ottoman
political language of the time as hanedans.

This chapter considers the formation of one such local Ottoman elite made up
of governing families in the highest rungs of local provincial government from
the late 1600s, and its dissolution at the end of the seventeenth century.
Provincial government, it should be stressed, was dependent upon many more
officials, officers and soldiers at the lower echelons of the governing elite.
Subsequent chapters will focus on these groups and on their transformation.

Soon after the conquest, Ottoman bureaucrats set out to demarcate provinces
(eyalet or beylerbeylik in Turkish) and districts (sanjaq) in the newly
 Page 36

conquered lands. Surveyors commissioned by the state combed towns and

villages, registering every household's estimated income and tax yield. The new
districts were then divided into even smaller surplus yielding units, generally
called timars. Sipahis, the soldiers and officers of an elite cavalry force trained
in the capital, were brought over and settled in these timars. Some of the taxes
gathered by the state with the help of timar holders were used to pay for their
salaries, and, relative to the estate's annual income, for additional soldiers
under the sipahi's command. Provincial administration was structured as a
cavalry unit. Every group of sipahis had a commanding officer, a bölük
bas&inodot:, usually granted a larger estate, and himself an adjudant of the
district's governor. In the eyes of the Ottoman government, the district
governor (sanjaq bey) was first and foremost a cavalry battalion commander.
The governor of a province (vali, beylerbey) was, in addition to his other
duties, a regiment commander in the sipahi corps. When called to the flag, a
governor and his sipahis were expected to join the march of the imperial army
and wage war against the empire's enemies.

Until the mid­sixteenth century, two main sources supplied the empire's military
and administrative manpower. One was the devsirme (literally, "gathering").
Every few years the sultan dispatched his troops to Christian villages in the
Balkans and in Anatolia, to look for promising youths who would constitute the
empire's future elite. The boys thus gathered would then formally become the
sultan's slaves. Most were sent to farmers in Anatolia, where they would
convert to Islam, learn the language and acquire other skills. Those would
usually become soldiers and officers in the imperial army. A hand­picked
group of boys would be brought to the inner service (enderun) in the royal
palace, where they were to begin a long and rigorous process of education.
Through the years a series of tests and selections determined who would leave
to join the sipahis or janissaries, who would be appointed personal valet to the
sultan, and who would serve his master as an architect or a historian. Those
earmarked for promotion had their careers planned, and in due course were
given senior appointments in the provinces. Successful governors became state
ministers.

Another source of manpower was the households of governors and ministers

themselves. At their request, their sons and clients were sent to the provinces
as middle rank administrators. Those who showed greater talent and ability
were sometimes appointed to higher, better­paying positions in the provincial
government, and some eventually became district and province governors. In
theory there was a third source. Subjects of non­elite status (reaya) who
volunteered to fight in a war and showed exceptional valor would sometimes
be granted a timar. But the only way
 Page 37

to reach the battlefield and fight a war would be to join the household of a
governor or a high­ranking officer and become his client. In any case, those of
reaya status who were granted timars seldom advanced beyond this stage in
the first generation. 2

In research based on Ottoman governor appointment registers, Metin Kunt

examined the structure and status of provincial administration from the mid­
sixteenth century to the mid­seventeenth century. Such appointment registers
were kept and updated on a regular basis in the Ottoman capital, in order to
allow the sultan and his aides to keep track of governors in each of the
empire's myriad districts and provinces. The registers included details on the
appointee himself, his origin, known relatives or patrons, and his present
income. Having analyzed these ledgers statistically, Kunt concluded that the
system of governor appointments changed a great deal during this period.3

The main conclusion of Kunt's research is the considerable devaluation in the

importance of the district, and a parallel increase in the centrality of the
province in internal Ottoman politics. The sipahi cavalry, with its reliance on
bows and javelins and its inefficient handling of firearms, faded into
obsolesence towards the end of the sixteenth century. As their military
importance diminished, so did the administrative­economic system which
served as a basis for their organization and structure. The district governor,
whose main duty was to command a sipahi battalion and lead it into battle,
was no longer a pivotal functionary. By contrast, the province governor, who
had a much wider range of duties and responsibilities, gained in importance.

There were other changes. Towards the end of the sixteenth century governors
and high­ranking officials, usually referred to as ümera (Arabic umara'—
lords, princes), insisted that their sons and clients be considered for senior
government positions. This rapidly became the main source for provincial
administrators. Ümera, who were formerly incorporated into the provincial
system as timariots, or at most as holders of a zeamet (larger timar estate and
a somewhat bigger contingent to command) were now appointed directly as
district governors. Increased demands by the ümera for allocation of jobs to
their protegés resulted in an inflation of governors. One immediate
consequence was the abolition of the devsirme system. Instead of boys
gathered from Christian villages, the inner service of the sultan's palace now
admitted and trained the sons and clients of ümera. One of the only channels
for social mobility for non­Muslim subjects was thus blocked.

Yet another consequence was shorter terms in office for governors and other
high officials. Ümera eligible for governor status now had to play a game of
musical chairs within a limited, and ever shrinking number of
 Page 38

districts and provinces. The term of office as district governor became shorter,
and in the seventeenth century governors were often appointed only for a year
or two. Many senior officials found themselves with no district to govern, and
were forced to take long vacations from office. In order to allow them to
maintain a household in keeping with their status, the government bestowed on
many governors estates with life­long tenure (ber vech­i çiftlik). These estates
were sometimes very distant from the center, and the unemployed governor
usually administered them from afar. This undermined the position of district
governors even further. Large parts of their dominions were now taken away
and given to other, higher ranking officials. The area actually under the
governor's jurisdiction had shrunk considerably, even within his appointed
district. 4

As the systems internal logic slowly faded away, any position in government
centers or in the provinces could serve as a springboard to the position of
district governor. Whereas in the past every candidate had to present a record
of service in junior government positions, now a prospective governor was not
required to show any previous experience. Inexperienced sons of ümera, and
those related to patrons in the imperial center, were given governorships in
major districts.

While this tendency continued, says Kunt, the central government became
increasingly worried about governors becoming too entrenched in their
districts, forging an alliance with local elites to defy Ottoman rule. On the other
hand, however, governors still needed to have some knowledge of specific
problems and conditions in their region. The emerging pattern therefore
dictated frequent transfers of governors from one district to another, but usually
within the same province.

Kunt's sources have the advantage of a view from the center, and the ability to
analyze statistically large numbers of districts in a vast area over a long period
of time. But registers of appointment may also have a built­in drawback. A
distant and formal point of view, of the kind usually found in Ottoman
bureaucratic registers, may sometimes obfuscate the political nuances of
appointments in the districts and provinces of the Ottoman Empire. This is
where a smaller­scale study, concentrated in the district of Jerusalem and its
neighboring districts, may view Kunt's conclusions against the background of
local politics and society and provide some important insights.

Ottoman conquests brought about numerous changes in administration and in

the structure of local government. Jerusalem, as well as the neighboring districts
of Nabulus, Gaza and Lajjun, were placed under the jurisdiction of Damascus.
Former Mamluk governors were deposed. A new system of taxation was
worked out. District governors, qadis, sipahis and
 Page 39

janissaries were sent by the government to rule its new possessions. The new
administrative units in Palestine, however, retained some earlier Mamluk traits.
In several districts a familiar administrative system, reminiscent of the Mamluk
household, emerged at a relatively early stage. Several governing families
appointed by the Ottomans managed to secure their rule in the area and
transfer power within the family for more than a century. This system of
hereditary rule in the sanjaq, was to influence other regions of the empire in the
next century.

Three ümera households, hanedans, rose to power in the southwestern

districts of the province of Damascus. The houses of Ridwan (Turk. Rizvan),
Turabay and Farrukh (Turk. Ferruh) were to rule these districts until the late
seventeenth century. While the latter two were the subject of several studies,
no research has been done on the Ridwans, an important and influential family
which held sway over most of Palestine for many years. 6

These studies fail to recognize the full extent of dynasty rule over the districts of
Palestine in the seventeenth century. The Farrukhs, Ridwans and Turabays
governed the districts of Jerusalem, Nabulus, Gaza and Lajjun almost until the
end of the seventeenth century. During that time their relations gradually
developed through marriage, political alliances and economic transactions. In
the second half of the century, they became one extended dynasty. This
chapter describes the local dynasties, their relations with each other and with
the Ottoman center, their culture, and their final dissolution in the 1670s. Their
disappearance towards the end of the century had a lasting effect on society
and politics in the region.

The Rise of Local Dynasties

The Ridwans

The house of Ridwan was the most prestigious and influential of all dynasties in
the southwestern districts of the province of Damascus. Its members regarded
themselves, with some justification, as leaders of the region and to some extent
as patrons of other households. The founder of the dynasty was Kara Shahin
Mustafa Pasha, a ''slave of the gate" (kapi kul), a product of Sultan Süleymans
devsirme system who was educated in the inner service of the palace and
reached a very high position in the Ottoman government. In 951 (1544–45)
Mustafa was appointed governor of Erzerum, and in 955 was made governor
of the province of Diyarbekir. When his term of office ended he became
personal tutor (lala) of prince Bayezit, the sultazys son.
 Page 40

Later on, apparently as an interim appointment, Mustafa received the

governorship of Gaza, which, though a mere sanjaq, retained some of its
former Mamluk grandeur. In 970 (1562–63) he was appointed governor of
Egypt, a post he was deposed from three years later, in 973 (1565–66),
perhaps because his patron Sultan Süleyman had died, and the new sovereign,
Selim II, was reluctant to put his trust in the former tutor of Bayezit, his brother
and rival. Mustafa Pasha died a short while later. His son, Ridwan Pasha, who
gave his name to the dynasty, was made treasurer (defterdar) of Yemen, and
later governor of Gaza, during his father's lifetime. In 972 (1564–65) he
became governor of the province of Yemen, and was deposed two years later.
His deposition may have had something to do with that of his father at the same
time, though no explanation is provided by the sources. He returned to the
governorship of Gaza, and was later made vali of Ethiopia (Habes), Basra and
Diyarbekir, in succession. In 987 he led a military contingent in the war against
the Safavids, and, as a token of gratitude for his distinction, was awarded the
province of Anatolia in the Ottoman heartland, where he died in 993 (April
1585).

Ridwan's brother, Bahram Pasha, also became a high­ranking official in the

Ottoman provincial administration. Starting out as governor of Nabulus, he was
later appointed Beylerbey of Damascus and leader of the Hajj caravan from
Damascus to Mecca (amir al­hajj al­shami). Bahram was the owner and
patron of a Circassian mamlok named Farrukh, who was to become governor
of Jerusalem and founder of the Farrukh dynasty. Bahram's sons and mamloks
continued to rule the district of Nabulus alongside their Farrukh allies well into
the second half of the seventeenth century. Another of the family's mamloks,
Kiwan, was sent to Damascus, where he distinguished himself in the service of
the governor. Kiwan's son was to become governor and amir al­hajj in the
1670s. 8

Though no explanation is provided in biographies of the dynasty's ancestors, it

is evident that they chose to make the city of Gaza their home and castle.
Ridwan's son, Ahmad Pasha, governed the district of Gaza, sometimes
incorporating Jerusalem and Nabulus, for over thirty years and was frequently
appointed amir al­hajj. Unlike his predecessors, Ahmad had to fight for
promotion to beylerbey, and grew old before he was given a province to rule
in 1009 (1600–01) having sent gifts and large sums of money to countless
vezirs and bureaucrats in Istanbul. He died in 1015 (1606–07).9

The next in line, Hasan Pasha ibn Ahmad, was nicknamed "Arap" (the
bedouin), probably because by that time the family came to be identified with
the efficient control and intimate knowledge of the Bedouin. He justified his
nickname time and again in the prolonged war against Fakhr al­Din of
Lebanon, when his bedouin units proved most efficient and
 Page 41

defeated Fakhr al­Din's army. Arap Hasan also managed to climb up in the
ranks and was appointed governor of Tripoly (Tarablus al­Sham), only to be
deposed several years later, in 1054 (1644). Muhibbi, who wrote his
biography, mocks him, saying he was addicted to worldly pleasures.
According to this biographer, Hasan had many wives and concubines, who
bore him eighty­five sons, most of whom he did not recognize by name. When
one of his sons died he was unable to remember who he was until his advisers
described the son and his mother. "In short, Hasan Pasha had fun in this world"
says Muhibbi ominously. His style of living had not only brought him
punishment in the next world as Muhibbi implies, it had also burdened the
family with a heavy debt. 10

Arap Hasan's son, Husayn Pasha, was apparently a better administrator than
his father, and managed to resuscitate the family's economic fortunes. In his
father's lifetime he was appointed governor of Jerusalem and Nabulus, and
amir al­hajj. When Arap Hasan died, he inherited the impoverished
governorship of Gaza. Husayn's period in office was prosperous and peaceful.
His reputation reached the bedouins and strife between the settled and nomad
populations decreased considerably. When his son Ibrahim came of age,
Husayn appointed him governor of Jerusalem, and later on gave him the
family's stronghold, the district of Gaza, while he himself chose to govern the
district of Nabulus and lead the hajj caravan from Damascus. A few years
later, in 1070 (1660–61), Ibrahim was killed in a punitive expedition against
the Druze in Lebanon, and his father resumed control of Gaza.

Anonymous petitions sent to Istanbul—complaining about his failure to lead the

hajj caravan and secure safe passage for the pilgrims to Mecca—served as an
excuse for the Ottoman government to depose him. He was arrested in the
castle of Muzayrib on the hajj route and brought to Damascus, where he was
imprisoned, and his assets were confiscated. A short time later he was
transferred to Istanbul, and died there in prison, in 1073 (1662–63).11 After
Husayn's death his brother Musa governed the district of Gaza for a short
period. His name is mentioned in Jerusalem's sijill records in 1081 (1670). It
is difficult to establish the exact date his rule ended, but soon afterwards Gaza
was taken over and Ottoman officials were appointed governors. The Ridwan
period was probably the last golden age of the city of Gaza. From this point
on, the once magnificent city declined, to become little more than a village in
the nineteenth century.12

The Turabays

Members of the Turabay family, a clan of the Banu Haritha bedouin tribe, may
have held the title of amir al­darbayn (amir of the two roads), even
 Page 42

in Mamluk times, before the Ottoman conquest, though the Turabay mentioned
by Mamluk sources seems to have been a Mamluk bey unrelated to the
bedouin Turabay clan. 13 As Sultan Selim's armies progressed south to Egypt
after their victory over the Mamluks at Marj Dabik, the Turabays offered them
assistance as guides and scouts. When the last of the Manduks were uprooted
and the sultan returned to Istanbul, the family was rewarded for its services. It
was given the territory known as Lajjun, later to become a formal sanjaq
comprising mainly the valley of Esdraelon (Marj Bani 'Amr), the northern hills
of Samaria, and the lower Galilee. Under the Ottomans, the Turabays
continued to perform their traditional tasks, and they retained their title of Amir
al­Darbayn.

Soon they were given another task—leading the pilgrims from Damascus to
Mecca, or, more often, watching over the district of Gaza while the Ridwans
were away leading the hajj caravan. From time to time the sultan issued
commands instructing the Turabays to transfer contingents, and sometimes
even to take over the administration of Gaza until its governors returned from
their mission. The Turabays fulfilled these obligations to the letter, gaining the
praise and trust of the Ridwans.14

The first member of the family to be mentioned by name in Ottoman sources is

Qaraja ibn Turabay, who offered his help to the advancing imperial army. His
son, Turabay ibn Qaraja, remained loyal to the Ottomans during the famous
revolt of Janbirdi al­Ghazali, a former Mamluk bey who was appointed
governor of Damascus by the Ottomans, and rose against them in 1520. When
the revolt was suppressed, Turabay gained favor in the eyes of his Ottoman
masters, and was given more land.15

After a short period in which the Turabays themselves were in a state of

rebellion for unknown reasons, things were straightened out, and 'Ali ibn
Turabay was appointed governor of Lajjun in 1559. Another son, 'Assaf,
mentioned by the sources in 1571, ruled the district for over a decade, and
extended his power and influence to other regions, including the district of
Nabulus. In 1583 he was deposed and banished to the island of Rhodes, only
to reappear six years later, demanding to be reinstated in his territory. He was
granted a pardon and allowed to settle in Lajjun, but meanwhile another
'Assaf, apparently an impostor, seized the sanjaq. This impostor, "'Assaf the
Liar" (al­kadhdhab) as he was later known, decided to go to Damascus and
confirm his appointment. Upon arrival he was seized and executed. Although
the real 'Assaf was not reinstated in his district, Lajjun remained in Turabay
hands for many years to come.16

The next ruler in the dynasty was Turabay ibn 'Ali, of whom little is known. He
died in 1010 (1601) and was succeeded by his son Ahmad, who ruled the
district of Lajjun for forty­seven years, until his death in 1057 (1647). Ahmad
was famous for his courage and hospitality. He helped
 Page 43

the Ottomans defeat the rebel Janbulad, gave shelter to Janbulad's rival, Yusuf
Sayfa, and later played a major role in the prolonged series of battles fought
against Fakhr al­Din II, in cooperation with Muhammad ibn Farrukh and
Hasan ibn Ahmad ibn Ridwan. 17 A grateful Ottoman administration repaid
him by expanding his fief, but this spirit of goodwill did not last very long. A
register of provincial appointments from the mid­seventeenth century, records
Ahmad ibn Turabay's appointment as governor, confirmed in Rajab 1042
January 1633). A later note, however, states that "when extent of the
insurgency on the part of this district governor (mutasarrif) became apparent,
the said district was bestowed, in return for a certain sum, upon Musa, the
former bey of […], on 11 Muharram 1050 (3 May 1640)." Later in the same
year another note in the register states that Ahmad Turabay was reinstated as
governor of Lajjun.

When Ahmad died, his son Zayn assumed control of the district and governed
it wisely until 1660. Upon his death he was replaced by his brother
Muhammad, who, though well­meaning and broad­minded, was weak and
addicted to opium, according to d'Arvieux, his French secretary and friend. At
this point Turabay rule in the sanjaq of Lajjun began to wane. In 1082 (1671)
Muhammad passed away and other members of the family ruled the sanjaq
until in 1088 (1677) "the government abandoned them" as Muhibbi writes, and
the Turabays were replaced by an Ottoman officer.19

The Farrukhs

Former studies of the house of Farrukh end with the death of Muhammad ibn
Farrukh, but as new sources reveal, the Farrukh dynasty went on to rule the
districts of Jerusalem and Nabulus for several more decades.20

The Circassian amir Farrukh began his career as a military slave (mamlok) in
the service of Bahram Pasha, brother of Ridwan Pasha of Gaza. In 1596,
under the aegis of his master, he was appointed to the post of subashi (officer
in charge of public order) in Jerusalem. When Bahram died young Farrukh
embarked on an independent career, first as governor of Jerusalem, where he
received his first appointment in 1603, and later on in Nabulus, where his rule
began in 1609. Nabulus was to become a haven for the Farrukhs for many
years to come. In the following years his governorship alternated between
these two districts, sometimes governing both of them at the same time. His
Nabulus governorship brought him the lucrative title of amir al­hajj, which at
the time became almost synonymous with an appointment in Nabulus. Death
found him in 1030 (1621), while leading the hajj caravan, a task he performed
with great skill and courage.21

Muhammad ibn Farrukh, who replaced his father as governor of Jerusalem and
Nabulus, inherited his father's courage, but was also remarkably
 Page 44

cruel and ruthless. It was rumored that he had a hand in his father's death. Jews
and Christians in the city sent long letters to their brethren abroad, describing
the plight of the local population. Muslims sent petitions to the sultan's palace,
pleading for protection. Fearing his cruelty, his many enemies in the city did
their best to convince the governor of Damascus and the sultan's vezirs to
replace him. His loyalty and expertise in leading the hajj caravan were,
however, indispensable, and the government decided to turn a blind eye to his
cruelty. As a result, he ruled Jerusalem only intermittently, for short periods of
time. He was allowed to remain in Nabulus, and was even permitted to add the
sanjaq of Karak­Shawbak in Trans­Jordan to his fiefs. He died in 1638 and
left two sons, 'Ali and 'Assaf. 22

Very little is known about the first son, 'Ali. Muhibbi mentions him in his
father's biography, saying he was appointed amir al­hajj once. 'Assaf, the
second son, is also mentioned only in Muhammad's biography. According to
Muhibbi he was appointed amir al­hajj several times, and died in Konya
(Anatolia) in 1081 (1670). Rafeq adds that 'Assaf fulfilled his duties as amir
al­hajj in the years 1665–69, and a local chronicler, Ihsan al­Nimr suggests
that he was replaced in this capacity by one of al­Nimr's ancestors, Musa
Pasha al­Nimr. His fateful trip to Anatolia in 1670 was intended to regain the
sultan's favor.23

The sijill registers of Jerusalem and Nabulus are an invaluable source of

information about 'Assaf Farrukh and his family in the years following his
father's death. The only register surviving in Nabulus from the mid­seventeenth
century was compiled at a time when 'Assaf Bey (later Pasha) was governor of
Nabulus and amir al­hajj. This register covers the period from 1655 to 1657.
Apparently 'Assaf's rule in Nabulus continued before and after this period.
Sijill records tend to praise contemporary governors, while allowing some
criticism of former ones. The Nabulus sijill is no exception, but if the register is
anything to go by, 'Assaf's reign was considerably milder than his father's.24

Later documents from the sijills of Jerusalem in the years 1078–80 (1668–70)
mention 'Assaf as "amir al­umara' 'Assaf Pasha, governor of Nabulus and
Jerusalem and amir al­hajj." A register covering 1081 (1670) records his
death in Anatolia. A list of his assets recorded in this register for inheritance
purposes, mentions a wife, two young sons and a young daughter. For some
unknown reason, all documents pertaining to his death and inheritance are
erased by pen strokes (although they are still readable). After his death no
other members of the family were appointed, although the family's descendents
remained part of the local elite in Damascus, Nabulus and Jerusalem well into
the eighteenth century.25
 Page 45

Towards a Unified Dynasty

The three dynasties which controlled Gaza, Jerusalem, Nabulus and Lajjun had
common interests from the outset. Documents from the late sixteenth century
reveal a series of contacts between the Ridwans and the Turabays concerning
the yearly pilgrimage. The Farrukh­Ridwan relationship began when young
Farrukh was brought as a slave from Circassia into the household of Bahram
Pasha. In military slavery tradition relations between the mamlok and his
master resembled a father­son relationship, and this bond remained firm even
when the mamlok was given his freedom. This factor, as well as Farrukh's
competence and loyalty, convinced Bahram and Ridwan Pasha to make him
subashi of Jerusalem, and later on to support his bid for the governorship of
Jerusalem. 26

Relations between the Farrukhs and the Turabays were also based on the need
to protect roads, fight common enemies and lead the hajj caravan. These
relations were forged in the early 1600's, and were greatly strengthened when
Farrukh's son, Muhammad, took over and found a trusted ally in Ahmad ibn
Turabay.27 In the course of the seventeenth century this common basis was
expanded, and ties between the three families were further reinforced until the
Farrukhs, Ridwans and Turabays became one extended family. Their relations
were based on multiple marriage links, strategic interests in the province of
Damascus, and even joint business transactions.

Family Ties

Biographical dictionaries, provincial appointment registers and travel accounts

do not tell us much about marriage and family ties between governing families.
Most Western travelers, of course, were far removed from local politics, and
had very little background to build their understanding on. Local inhabitants
knew much more about these ties, but, being private matters which involved
women, they were not discussed in public. Even the Ottoman authorities did
not deem it proper to remark on these family ties in appointment registers, and
were satisfied with hints (transparent to them, almost impervious to us) about
patrons and benefactors. It is through documents in the sijill that we can begin
to reconstruct the local political scene, in particular family ties between the
local dynasties.

Manna' notes that Muhammad ibn Farrukh married ibn Turabay's

granddaughter in order to seal the alliance between them on the eve of their
great battle against Fakhr al­Din in 1623. One of the sons born of this marriage
may well have been 'Assaf Pasha ibn Muhammad, named for his great
grandfather 'Assaf, an ancestor of the Turabay clan.28
 Page 46

Marriage ties between the Ridwans and the Farrukhs also began at an early
stage. A segmented record in the Nabulus sijill, discussing a change in custody
over orphaned children, alludes to one such marriage:
[The court appoints] his excellency Husayn Pasha, governor of Gaza, as shar'i
custodian (wasiyy) over his sister's son, the minor amir, Farrukh ibn […] ibn
Muhammad Pasha ibn Farrukh Pasha, [and authorizes him to take charge of] the
orphan's property received from his deceased mother, the honorable lady […],
daughter of the deceased amir al­'umara' […]. [The authorization includes the
right] to buy and sell, negotiate, and conduct other transactions, the profits
thereof accruing to the orphan, amir Farrukh. In this capacity he replaces the
boy's uncle, his father's brother, his excellency 'Assaf Bey, since the latter has
shown willingness to be relieved as custodian from this date onwards. Copied
on 10 Rajab 1066 (4 May 1656). 29

Husayn Pasha Ridwan, we learn from the record, was a maternal uncle (khal)
of the orphaned amir, whose mother and father have both died. According to
the record the boy's paternal uncle ('amm) was 'Assaf Bey Farrukh. If we
accept Muhibbi's testimony that Muhammad ibn Farrukh had only two sons,
'Ali and 'Assaf, then young Farrukh must have been 'Ali's son. The relationship
may therefore be reconstructed as follows: Husayn Pasha's sister (daughter of
Hasan Pasha) married 'Ali, son of Muhammad ibn Farrukh. 'Ali and his wife
died in unknown circumstances, and the uncle was asked to take custody of
his nephew.

The question of appointing a custodian emerges once more in a later series of

records in the Jerusalem sijill. This time the orphans are two sons and a
daughter of 'Assaf Farrukh himself (who meanwhile became a Pasha):
Since amir al­hajj, amir al­umara' 'Assaf Pasha died, may his soul rest in peace,
and has left small children—Muhammad Bey, 'Ali Bey and Mahmanud khanim
[Turkish hanim, title of a lady]—all of whom are minors, the need has arisen to
appoint a custodian who will take charge of all that was bequeathed by their
father, and manage everything in accordance with interest and fate, in matters of
buying and selling, negotiations, and other transactions, profits of which would
benefit the heirs. Our master the qadi has consulted Allah, exalted be he, and
chose amir al­'umara' Musa Pasha, the current governor of Gaza, to be legal
custodian over Muhammad Bey, 'Ali Bey and Mahmanud Khanim, and to take
possession of the inheritance […]. All this was decided when it was brought to
the qadi's attention that Musa Pasha is the maternal uncle of the minors and is
concerned about their well­being.30
 Page 47

Another segment, describing the deceased 'Assaf Pasha's estate, provides

another clue to the complex family relations between the Farrukhs and the
Ridwans:
This is a register recording the estimated value of the property belonging to the
departed amir al­hajj, amir al­umara 'Assaf Pasha. Those entitled to inherit him
are his two minor sons, Muhammad Bey and 'Ali Bey, his minor daughter
Mahmanud Khatun (another title for a lady), and his wife, pride of the modest
Shaqra Khatun, daughter of the deceased amir al­umara' Husayn Pasha, former
governor of Gaza. All this was recorded in the knowledge of Musa Pasha,
current governor of Gaza, who was appointed legal custodian over the said
orphans. 31

Reading the two records together allows us to disentangle more of the complex
family ties between the two clans. It appears that Shaqra Khatun, 'Assaf
Pasha's only (living) wife and the mother of his children, was a daughter of
Husayn Pasha Ridwan. As in the former Nabulus records, here too a relative
from the Ridwan side of the family—Musa Pasha, Husayn's brother—is called
on to take charge of the bereaved family and act as legal custodian. Preference
for the Ridwans as custodians responsible for both children and property
seems to be no coincidence. It indicates their dominant status in the emerging
unified dynasty, as well as the intimate family relations between the Ridwans
and the Farrukhs. These were not mere political marriages. They carried with
them a long­range commitment and a continuity that generated common
economic and cultural interests.

Such evidence of family ties in the sijill, though by no means exhaustive,

demonstrates clearly that until their destruction in the 1670s local clans went
through a process of unification which forged them into one extended dynasty.
This dynasty regarded all sanjaqs of Western Palestine (and sometimes those
in Trans­Jordan as well) as common fiefs. In times of trouble they would all
gather into one or two sanjaqs and await a chance to remove their rivals and
reclaim the others. Throughout the seventeenth century there were several such
circles of expansion and contraction.

The family ties of 'Assaf Farrukh could serve to demonstrate this integration of
the three clans. His mother was probably, Ahmad ibn Turabay's
granddaughter. His wife was the daughter of Husayn Pasha Ridwan, and his
sister­in­law, his brother's wife, was Husayn Pasha's sister. When 'Assaf's
brother died, Husayn Pasha became his orphans' legal custodian, and when
'Assaf himself passed away, Husayn's brother, Musa, was appointed his
children's custodian until they reached maturity. But with
 Page 48

'Assaf and his generation this process also reached its peak, and a few years
later the extended dynasty was destroyed.

Fig. 2.1.
Ties Between the Households of Ridwan, Turabay and Farrukh

War and Business

Marriages were not the only ties to connect the governing families. Common
property, and the lingering memory of battles fought together against common
enemies, were day­to­day bridges of communication, myths sustaining unity.
 Page 49

The beginning of military cooperation between the clans had its roots in the
yearly hajj caravan, which required that the governor chosen to be that year's
amir al­hajj abandon his sanjaq for prolonged periods of time and appoint a
trusted neighboring governor to take care of his sanjaq until he returned.
Governors had to make sure no one would raid the sanjaq, reap off taxes, or
cause damage to their own private property. Good relations between
governors were a prerequisite for a successful pilgrimage, and the Ottoman
authorities, for whom success in the hajj was a major political interest,
encouraged such friendships.

The Ridwans allowed the Turabay amirs to replace them as governors while
they led the hajj caravan, creating a relationship of trust and budding
cooperation which grew as the years wore on. A firman of 1589 declares that
the amir Ridwan has commended 'Assaf ibn Turabay for his valor and
assistance, and that the Ottoman authorities have taken this into account in their
future dealings with the Turabays. 32

But mutual trust became real alliance once Fakhr al­Din's growing power and
influence threatened to engulf the whole region and destroy the foundations of
their strength. In 1613, in the wake of a series of skirmishes with local forces,
Fakhr al­Din's army defeated forces sent by the governor of Damascus. A
large contingent of the imperial army was dispatched against him from Istanbul,
and the amir was forced to flee and seek shelter in Europe. He finally arrived
in Milan, at the court of the princes of Tuscany, who were to become his future
allies and protectors.

In 1618 Fakhr al­Din contacted the new grand vezir in Istanbul, and managed
to placate him and return to Syria. Four years later, in 1622, he regained his
old title, and took control of the districts of Safad and 'Ajlun. In the same year
he was appointed governor of Nabulus and tax collector in Gaza, threatening
the continued rule of the Ridwans and the Farrukhs in the district. Unmoved by
Ottoman efforts to restrain him, Fakhr al­Din then collected his forces and
descended to the coastal plain, heading south towards Jerusalem and southern
Palestine.

Encouraged by the Ottoman authorities, who were more apprehensive now of

Fakhr al­Dins growing strength, the three clans allied themselves, and pledged
to stop Fakhr al­Dins march south. The alliance, headed by ''Arab" Hasan
Ridwan, Muhammad Farrukh and Ahmad Turabay, checked Fakhr's advance
and finally routed his army on the banks of the Yarqon ('Awja) river in 1623.
Fighting against a strong, well­equipped enemy backed by one of
Christendom's richest royal houses, the three families had to share their
resources in order to buy arms and stores, acquire estates in Trans­Jordan for
other allies, and pay bedouin sheikhs who joined the Ridwan­Farrukh­Turabay
alliance.33
 Page 50

Not once throughout the seventeenth century was this alliance compromised by
any of the three families. Disputes among them were in most cases resolved by
mutual agreement, and only rarely by Ottoman arbitration. Joint economic
ventures created a new, long­term raison d'être for the alliance and renewed
interests.

Some of these ventures began as a simple bequest of property to a daughter or

a sister married to an allied family. According to Islamic law and local custom,
women inherited a substantial portion of their deceased kin's possessions
(usually half the amount inherited by a male in the same kinship relation to the
deceased). Quite a few of these assets were parts, or shares, of an orchard, a
shop or a house, other parts of which were held by the wife's family. In many
cases women chose to keep their property and administer it by themselves, but
in the course of a marriage assets would sometimes be combined with those of
the husband. In the second and third generation, sons and daughters held
portions of both properties. The assets of the Ridwans, Farrukhs and Turabays
thus became inextricably bound together. 34

Alongside these assets, the allies had other common business. At times they
would join forces to extract more money from the defenseless rural population,
or even to raid and rob entire villages, as in the case of Ahmad Turabay and
Muhammad Farrukh, who united their armies to ravage and plunder several
villages in the region of Ramallah. There is also mention in the sijill of business
deals involving the Farrukhs and the Ridwans. The governors, it seems, made
use of their ties and their special status to conduct shady business deals:
His excellency 'Assaf Pasha, governor of Nabulus and amir al­hajj, leases from
Mustafa aga ibn Sulayman Tuqlizade, with his own money, on his own behalf,
what the latter had himself leased from the exalted amir al­umara Husayn
Pasha, the governor of Gaza. This same property was leased by Husayn Pasha
from the famous 'alim, Jarallah, the mufti of the Hanafis in Jerusalem, who is
also supervisor and comptroller of the waqf of the Jawhari madrasa and the
'Uthmani madrasa in Jerusalem. [The first rental contract] was signed in
accordance with a legal ruling in the court of Gaza on 26 Rabi' al­Thani of the
year mentioned below (21 Feb. 1656).

The property rented is a tract of land named "al­Maqsam" measuring 42.5 out of
a total area of 60faddan , in the lands of the village of Tul Karm. The area is
known by all concerned, and recognized [by the inhabitants], which renders its
exact description here unnecessary. The lessee is permitted to use the land for
winter and summer crops, and for all other accepted uses, for a period of one
 Page 51

year, beginning on 26 Rabi' al­Thani 1066. The rental is 250 ghurosh, paid
directly to the lessor. The present lessee acknowledged having received the
property. All this was proved and certified at the qadi's court, after all shar'i
aspects of the matter were taken into account. Recorded on 15 Rajab 1066 (9
May 1656). 35

This record, so imbued with shar'i legalistic jargon, raises some interesting
questions: Why was such a long chain of lessors needed? Why did 'Assaf
Pasha, a governor famous in Jerusalem as well as Nabulus, need the mediation
of his father­in­law, and of another Ottoman officer, to rent a tract of land from
a waqf in Jerusalem? Why is there such an emphasis on the legality of the
deal? In any case, it is clear from this and other records that the Farrukhs and
the Ridwans were involved in a long series of joint business ventures, not all of
them in accordance with shar'i law or Ottoman kanun. Other transactions
recorded include the rental and purchase of houses, flour mills and tracts of
land.

In the several decades of their alliance the governing families of the four
sanjaqs acquired a vast amount of property. Some indication of their riches
may be reconstructed from 'Assaf's inheritance documents. When 'Assaf Pasha
died on the way to Istanbul in 1670, doubts were raised concerning his
holdings in Nabulus and in the little town of Ramla. A document was then
drafted by the court, listing his assets in the two towns and acknowledging the
right of Musa Pasha, his children's legal custodian, to administer this property:
In the town of Nabulus: A big house in town—600 ghurush; the wikala (a local
hostel and caravanseray) and half the coffee house—600 gh.; half a soap
factory (masbana)—300 gh; a bakery—60 gh; a soap factory courtyard and a
room—60 gh; 3 orchards—300 gh; two shops and their taxes—25 gh; two
houses bought in the city—50 gh; two separate houses—30 gh; a flour mill—80
gh; water operated flour mills—100 gh; half an Olive grove—40 gh.

In the town of Ramla: Flour mills on the 'Awja river—600 gh; a bathhouse in
Ramla—300 gh; a coffee house—50 gh; a large house—250 gh; a small house—
30 gh; small living rooms—30 gh; a small room—15 gh; an orange grove and an
orchard (leased)—150 gh; a new vineyard—20 gh.36

In total, the deceased governor's estate in Nabulus and Ramla is estimated at

3,690 ghurush. This was only part, perhaps a small part, of the pasha's
possessions. The document does not list other forms of property beside
immovables—debts, coins, jewellery and other valuable items. We know from
other documents in the Nabulus and Jerusalem sijills that
 Page 52

'Assaf rented the taxes of several villages in the vicinity from waqfs and from
timar holders, and had received a considerable income from this activity. The
Farrukhs also had other important assets in Jerusalem and Damascus which
were not listed in this document? 37

Funds gathered in this fashion did not only serve to maintain a high standard of
living. A governor in the Ottoman Empire was expected to establish a
household in keeping with his rank and income. Since funds provided by the
state were always insufficient, the governor of Nabulus, an almost permanent
amir al­hajj, needed large sums of money every year to prepare and stock up
for the expected pilgrimage. Finally, money paid in Istanbul and Damascus
made sure that the local dynasties would remain in their districts and disrupted
attempts to appoint other governors. The economic alliance between the
dynasties guaranteed that all three families would be able to meet these heavy
requirements and succeed in their tasks.

Court Culture and Family Life

We know very little about daily life in the households and courts of Palestine's
governing dynasties. There are few testimonies about their way of life, their
cultural pursuits, their belief systems or their ideologies. In this respect there
may be some difference between the Turabays and the other two families. The
Turabays, bedouin by origin and culture, preserved their desert Arab heritage
and went on raising camels and horses. They retained their old nomadic tents,
although by the seventeenth century they were already established in the towns
of Lajjuan and Jenin. The heritage of the Farrukhs and the Ridwans, in
contrast, had its roots in the Mamluk­Ottoman world of slave soldiers and
court etiquette?38

The founders of both Farrukh and Ridwan dynasties traced their origins to
slavery. Kara Shahin Mustafa Pasha, Ridwan's father, was a product of the
devsirme system at its peak, in the days of Sultan Süleyman. Brought by the
janissaries to Istanbul, he was officially enslaved and entered the sultan's
service, a military slave whose acquired status would lead him into the
Ottoman elite as a soldier, an officer, a governor or a state minister. Mustafa
had in fact traversed the whole distance, becoming a vezir, and the sultan's
trusted aide.39

Farrukh was a slave too, albeit of a different kind. He was bought or captured
in Circassia, and brought into the household of Bahram Pasha, Kara Shahin
Mustafa's son. Like other slaves in the service of the Ridwan family, Farrukh
was educated and prepared for a career in the governing elite of the Ottoman
Empire. This trajectory, which Kunt calls "the slaves' slaves" (kullarin kullari)
was the established pattern of socialization and
 Page 53

career path of the ümera. It competed with the devsirme for a while, and
finally led to its disappearance at the turn of the sixteenth century. 40

Ottoman governing elite culture always emphasized the importance of both

book and sword—knowledge of fencing, archery, tactics and strategy, along
with an acquaintance with religion, music, poetry, the visual arts and science.
The education of a boy in the devsirme system integrated all these into a
common cultural system, which characterized this elite and set it apart from the
old Ottoman Muslim aristocracy, whose bastion was the religious professions.
In this respect, as in many others, the sultan's palace served as a model, copied
on a smaller scale by governors and vezirs of the realm. Alumni of this
prestigious palace school fashioned their own households to resemble the
sultan's palace, and tried to give their own mamloks the sort of education they
received themselves. As a result, the governing elite, which included both the
sultan's slaves and the slaves' slaves, shared the same cultural values.

The Ridwans and the Farrukhs considered themselves part of this Ottoman
elite. In their biographies they are usually portrayed as competent, courageous
warriors, and at the same time as patrons of art and culture. This description is
so prevalent in Muhibbi's descriptions as to suggest the existence of a topos, a
literary stylistic device. According to his biography, Ahmad ibn Ridwan was a
man of great courage and valor, as well as a brilliant scholar, with a profound
understanding of history and science. Poets of his era, says Muhibbi, wrote
songs praising his encyclopedic knowledge. Ahmad loved to talk about
religious knowledge ('ilm) and always consulted the ulema on matters of state.
During his reign Gaza became a cultural center, influenced by the governor's
attitude, and by the fame of his great friend and protegé, Khayr al­Din al­
Ramli.42

Ahmad's son Hasan was so notorious a spendthrift and hedonist that nothing in
his biography could match his exploits, but Husayn Pasha is described by
Muhibbi as the paragon of perfection. He was a handsome, noble, cultured
man, yet a man of deeds whose reputation preceded him. Though for some
reason he could not read or write, he knew many books of poetry and prose
by heart. He was also a resolute leader in politics and war who forced the
bedouin to submit and cooperate.43

Farrukh and his son Muhammad are described in the same vein. Farrukh is the
"distinguished hero, of fearless heart" famous for his generosity, courage and
nobility. His son, remembered by local Jewish and Christian sources mainly for
his cruelty and greed, is portrayed by Muhibbi as "one of the world's most
famous heros and renowned noblemen" who had left an indelible impression on
the bedouin. When bedouin wished to frighten a fellow tribesman, recounts the
biographer, they would shout "Here comes ibn Farrukh!'' In his spare time ibn
Farrukh loved reading,
 Page 54

music, and other cultural pursuits. He memorized many stories, including al­
Hariri's long poems (maqamat), and loved to sing. 44

It seems that the writer sympathized with the local Farrukh and Ridwan
governors, who in his days were already removed from power. His sarcastic
description of Hasan Pasha Ridwan suggests that he was, at least to some
extent, impartial and free from government pressure or censorship, and that he
could have written straightforward biographies of local governors. Yet, even if
Muhibbi's descriptions are exaggerated, reflecting a petrified literary type that
does not correspond to reality, and even if some of the songs of praise quoted
in these biographies were commissioned by the governors themselves, they
also reflected a will on the part of these local governors to portray themselves
as successful products of the Ottoman governing elite's socialization system, a
cultural complex whose values were dictated by the educational system of the
sultan's slaves in the center. This was undoubtedly the normative reference
system sought by the local dynasties.

In his book Bureaucmtic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, Carter Findley

refers to the almost unavoidable transformation from a household based on
slaves to an extended family as the social and economic basis of the governing
elite. Many of the governors and senior officials in the Ottoman Empire were
tom away from their original families and recruited as slaves. Eventually they
were set free and expected to build a household of their own, commensurate
with their rank and income. In the first and second generations these
households had to rely mainly on male and female slaves, but in later
generations, as family ties were extended and new children were born, a real
family gradually replaced the artificial one. This process was usually built upon
a series of political alliances and marriages. Other means of extending the
family were the adoption of young slaves as children, and the emerging system
of patron­client relationships. In Findley's view this was an organizational form
which imitated the sultan's household, and itself evolved into a model replicated
on many levels of society and the administration.45

The series of political marriages, economic transactions and political alliances

described above fits in with this assumption. In the early stages, governors'
households were based mainly on military slaves (mamloks). Trained to
become officials and governors, they often reached the highest positions in
provincial government. Other household slaves were bought as status symbols,
intended to maintain the governor's obligations towards the Ottoman dynasty,
to emulate the imperial household, and to imply a further measure of legitimacy.
In later years, however, the governors themselves married, and pledged their
children in marriage, in order to establish their political credentials, but also in
order to create real families of their own.
 Page 55

Most of the marriage ties were exogamous, the partners coming from outside
the family, though in most cases from the same social strata. Along with
marriage ties between the dynasties, there were also several weddings
arranged with other notable families—bedouin sheikhs, Damascene
aristocracy, or prestigious local men of religion. 46 Endogamous marriages,
inside the family itself, were rare, although as the years wore on and
intermarriage between the three dynasties remained frequent, the three in fact
became one extended family, and what were once exogamous marriages
became endogamous.47

The number of legal wives and children can in most cases be arrived at by
checking inheritance documents in the sijill. If these are any indication,
polygamy was not rare, but in most cases one or two legal wives were deemed
sufficient, although there is no way of knowing the number of concubines
whose sons were disavowed by their fathers, as permitted by the shari'a.
Hasan Pasha's eighty­five sons were definitely an exception.

It is hard to determine the average age of marriage for men and women in this
group. Since in most cases women survived their husbands, it can be assumed
that women were married at a relatively young age to older men. After their
husbands' deaths wives usually kept a substantial part of the property, often
using it to go on conducting business on their own. In the shari'a court,
widows of former governors were always treated deferentially, commanding
respect and keeping their titles and high status.48

The governor's household, fashioned after the imperial palace model, displayed
other symbolic elements which included battle standards and a military band
that accompanied the governor on his way to the battlefield. Fallen into enemy
hands, the captive banners and band became symbols of failure and defeat. All
these symbols of official power were complemented by an extravagant affluent
dress, and an indulgence in aristocratic sports and leisure pursuits.49

It is harder to determine what language members of the local dynasties spoke

among themselves and with the local Arabic­speaking inhabitants of the region.
Years of cooperation between the three dynasties, as well as close contacts
with other bedouin tribes, must have left their mark on the culture of all
dynasties, creating a new hybrid Bedouin­Ottoman culture. This local culture
was evident in court life, dress and probably language as well.

Their close relations with the bedouin and the local notables, their command of
Arabic literature and poetry, the nickname "Arab," referring to Hasan Pasha
Ridwan, all indicate that they were versed in Arabic language and culture.
Arabic was certainly the language spoken by the Turabays, who needed a
translator for their correspondence with the Sublime Porte in Istanbul.50 But
evidence as to the language preferred by
 Page 56

the Farrukhs and Ridwans is inconclusive. Their Caucasian origins, their

Ottoman gentlemen's education, and the attempt to reproduce the imperial
household on a smaller scale, suggest a strong Turkish influence. Some
corroboration can be seen in the frequent use of titles like hanim and khatun,
reserved for Ottoman ladies, in court records referring to their women.
Although most names were Arabicized, sometimes Turkish personal names
would appear, as in the case of Mahmanud, daughter of 'Assaf Pasha.

Court records were always written in Arabic, except when official state
decrees were copied into the sijill. There is never any mention of a translator
or Arabic­speaking representative when a member of these dynasties is
present. However, since the qadi himself was almost always a Turkish speaker
sent over from the imperial center, probably no translation was needed, and
the trial's record was perhaps later translated into Arabic.

All this does not provide us with a firm basis to decide whether the language
and culture preferred were Turkish or Arabic. Most governors of local descent
spoke both languages quite well. It may be assumed that as their rule went on,
and ties with local notable families were strengthened, Arabic was used more
frequently.

An Ottoman Thrust to Eliminate the Dynasties

Throughout the second half of the seventeenth century a clandestine struggle

for control of the Palestinian districts took place between the alliance of local
dynasties on the one hand, and the central government on the other. Ever since
the destruction of Fakhr al­Din's power, and the elimination of this immediate
threat to its security, the center tried to appoint its own candidates—high­
ranking officers, governors of other districts, sons of the Center's elite—as
district governors in the western parts of the province of Damascus, and to
curb the power of local forces.

In the sanjaq of Gaza, the Ridwan stronghold, the effort had little chance of
success. This was also the case in Lajjun, where the Turabays held sway and
hampered any attempt to appoint other governors. Now and then the Turabays
were removed from power for short periods, but they soon managed to regain
their control. The Farrukhs managed to hold the fort in Nabulus most of the
time, but the joint Ridwan­Farrukh rule in Jerusalem was not very stable.
Several times during this period other sanjaqbeys were appointed by the
imperial center, frequently leading to drawn­out disputes over the right to
govern the area, and to many bribes being handed out in Damascus and
Istanbul.
 Page 57

Ottoman jubilation over the victory of the southern alliance opposing Fakhr al­
Din soon abated, as the Ottoman center found itself facing the same alliance,
which controlled the Palestinian sanjaqs and regarded them as a private fief.
Careful not to cross the line of open rebellion, these local dynasties
nevertheless resisted the center's attempts to weaken their hold over
Jerusalem, Nabulus, Lajjun and Gaza. From the center's point of view,
perhaps the most important aspect of this problem was diminished revenues
and the loss of control over the pilgrimage route from Damascus to Mecca.
Attempts to replace the local dynasties as umara' al­hajj, which began in the
1740s, subsequently failed. At a time of confusion and disarray in the center,
the expertise offered by the Farrukhs and Ridwans, their combined military
strength and their good relations with the bedouin made them invaluable to the
government. 51

In the second half of the century, when the Köprülü vezirs had embarked on a
costly campaign to recentralize the Ottoman Empire, more drastic measures
were decided upon to end the rule of local dynasties, and to increase the
center's influence. Such a decision was probably not recorded and is nowhere
to be found. But indications of this campaign, though largely circumstancial and
based on conjecture, are apparent in both local and external sources. These
measures bore the traditional earmarks of Ottoman power politics—use of
secret agents and elaborate political tactics. The authorities tried to fabricate
proof of misrule and corruption on the part of the local dynasties, and
especially the Ridwans, who were rightly considered the most important local
force on the scene. An early attempt to remove the Ridwans from power is
echoed in this enigmatic, badly preserved record in the Nabulus sijill, from
May 1656. Around that time Husayn Pasha Ridwan, the governor of Gaza,
suddenly arrived in the city of Nabulus and paid a visit to his son­in­law 'Assaf
Pasha. The sijill records several transactions in which Husayn Pasha
participated at the time. Then, one day, a group of people appeared in court:
Several people from the village of […]in the southern regions of the Nabulus
district arrived at the shari'a court. Among them were Nasrallah ibn 'Ayyash,
Da'ud ibn Shahada thefaqih ,52 hajj 'Awda ibn Ahmad and Muslih ibn 'Ali.

Eight days prior to date, [they told the qadi,] two people came to their village:
the exalted sultan's messenger (ulak), along with a man called Ibn Sa'd from the
village of Jabaliyya in the district of Gaza. According to their testimony this Ibn
Sa'd told them that "I and a group of other people from the village of Jabaliyya
made up our minds to travel to the threshold of felicity [the Sultan's palace]
 Page 58

and complain against […]. But Isma'il Pasha incited us to file a complaint against
his excellency amir al­umara Husayn Pasha, the current governor of Gaza,
instead. We did send a petition complaining about him, but this complaint had
no basis, and was made under pressure of the above­mentioned Isma'il Pasha."

[Ibn Sa'd] ran away from the said messenger who was sent to escort him to
Istanbul. All facts were thus duly recorded in the sijill on the 8th of Rajab 1066
(2 May 1656). 53

Was this a determined Ottoman effort to destroy Husayn Pasha, or a private

attempt by a political rival to incriminate the governor and take over his
district? Was there any connection between this chain of events and the sudden
appearance of Husayn Pasha in Nabulus at the same date? Did the event take
place as described in the document, or did the villagers receive some
encouragement to emphasize certain aspects of the incident from 'Assaf Bey,
Husayn Pasha's friend and son­in­law? The sijill's laconic description leaves
marry of these questions unanswered, but, as indicated by the arrest and trial
of Husayn Pasha several years later, the authorities did not hesitate to resort to
such tactics in their campaign against the local ruling dynasties.

Muhibbi, mourning the death of Husayn Pasha, whom he considered one of the
most righteous rulers of the time, recounts that he was denounced to the
Ottoman authorities, accused of negligence in conducting the pilgrims and the
hajj caravan to Mecca, arrested, manacled, and brought to the citadel in
Damascus. He remained there for a while, and was then sent on to Istanbul,
where he was murdered in jail in 1073 (1662–63). A poem written to
commemorate his death by his contemporary 'Abd al­Samman al­Dimashqi,
suggests the real motive for his imprisonment and execution: "He committed no
crime, But these are days of envy's rule. Chained inside a dungeon cell they
feared him, as one would fear a sword in its scabbard."54

The Ottomans must have assumed that by killing Husayn Pasha they would
remove the keystone of the alliance, and would eventually be able to destroy
the remnants of the extended dynasty. If this was their assumption, it proved
right. After his death the district of Gaza was governed by his brother Musa
Pasha, a weak, unimpressive governor who was manipulated into relinquishing
rule of the district, and was summarily replaced by officials appointed from the
center.

Next in line was 'Assaf Farrukh 'Assaf died in Konya, on the way to Istanbul,
in 1081 (1670–71). The circumstances of his death were very mysterious.
Muhibbi's short statement conceals more than it reveals. What did he die of?
was he sick? murdered? killed in an accident? Perhaps his
 Page 59

death was too close for comfort to Muhibbi's writing date, and the biographer
did not allow himself to hint about it as he did in the case of Husayn Pasha.
Sijill records pertaining to his death, present another enigma. All these
documents are crossed out, as if to say that they are no longer valid. This may
be an indication that the imperial treasury intended to confiscate his property,
or to deny any knowledge of his death. Be that as it may, 'Assaf was promptly
replaced by an ex­Beylerbey, brought from a distant province. Although
Farrukhs went on living as part of the elite in Jerusalem, Nabulus and
Damascus, their era in government was over.

The Turabays followed suit. In 1677, a few years after the death of 'Assaf
Farrukh, a window of opportunity presented itself to the patient Ottoman
central government. As their mainstay, the tribe of al­Haritha, moved eastward
to the area of 'Ajlun, the Turabays, who had already lost the support of their
allies and relatives, had to give in to Ottoman pressure. The last, incompetent
Turabay ruler was replaced by an Ottoman officer, who was later given several
other Palestinian sanjaqs.

Vezirs of the divan in Istanbul, led by the Köprölös, estimated that destruction
of the local dynasties and their replacement by the government's men, was
likely to assist the process of centralization, and would eventually strengthen
the government's control and increase its income. But logical though it may
have seemed, their hopes were quickly thwarted, and their centralization efforts
faltered almost from the start. From the center's point of view, local dynasties
should have had several serious advantages. Despite the wider margins of
autonomy they demanded, despite their disregard for imperial decrees and
their frequent refusal to join the army in times of war, locally based governors
were, in most cases, quite efficient rulers. Apart from their expertise in leading
the hajj caravan, and their special relationship with the bedouin tribes in the
area, they forged an alliance with the local notables based on mutual interest,
and enlisted their support in dealings with the population at large. Their era was
not devoid of hardship, dissent or insurrection, but the local dynasties were
well acquainted with the territory under their control, and its production
capabilities. They knew how to walk the narrow line separating a heavy yoke
from overexploitation which might eventually lead to rebellion or to the
abandonment of villages.

In the local dynasty era valuable information flowed back and forth between
the rulers and the ruled. Direct channels of communication built in the long
years of dynasty rule were reinforced by local notables. Increased coordination
between the governors and the populace allowed for a rather smooth and
uninterrupted operation of state machinery, tax collection and production
control. In return for this relatively coherent socioeconomic
 Page 60

system, which went on operating smoothly even as the timar system began to
degenerate, the Ottoman authorities had to pay by giving up total control and
relinquishing some of their economic gains.

With the destruction of local dynasties, and the appointment of new governors,
this state of affairs changed radically. The new governors regarded their
appointments as a mere source of income. They gave up the crucial alliance
with the notables, and the latter, stripped of their many privileges, joined forces
with the rapidly expanding group of the exploited. The new governors did not
try to curb the powers of timar holders, Janissaries and subashis, who
exploited the rural and urban population, plundered them at will, and showed
their contempt by defiling mosques and holy sites, discarding any semblance of
just rule. Townspeople lost their property. Villagers deserted their homes. In
the Mühimme ledgers in Istanbul complaints piled up about exploitation of
villagers, Janissaries wreaking havoc in the holy haram, and the dispossession
of ulema. Petitions were sent by Muslims, Christians and Jews, signed jointly
by ulema and reaya, imploring the "threshold of felicity" to restrain governors
and their henchmen. 55

It is not surprising therefore, that when the populace could bear no more, and
when opportunity presented itself, the inhabitants of Jerusalem rebelled against
their governor. Led by the city's senior notables and headed by Mustafa al­
Husayni, head of the prestigious ashraf families (naqib al­ashraf), the revolt
broke out following a long period of unrest. The rebels attacked and pillaged
the qadi's house, and executed his translator (tercüman), a corrupt man who
symbolized the decay of all systems of rule and justice. Soon they took over
the whole town, and, supported by a majority of the inhabitants, began to
administer the city's quarters and its economy by themselves.56

The central government in Istanbul, busy at the time putting out another fire
closer to home—the army insurrection known as the "Edirne Vakasi" (the
Edirne incident)—allowed the revolt in Jerusalem to go on for some time
before making the first serious attempt to suppress it. In the meantime internal
animosities split the rebel camp into two warring factions. A weakened naqib
al­ashraf now faced the government forces commanded by a new governor,
who besieged the city. After a few weeks of siege a compromise was reached:
the citadel was surrendered and the taxes paid. In return the siege was lifted,
and the new governor and his army remained outside the walls. The city
remained in rebel hands for a time, until pressure from without and dissent from
within forced the naqib and his men to flee in October 1705, and the revolt
ended.57

The initial failure of its thrust for centralization, and the revolt that followed,
made the reestablishment of Ottoman rule in Jerusalem a difficult
 Page 61

task. In the wake of this turbulent period substantial military units were
stationed in the city, encumbering both the government and the populace,
weakening the local economy and decreasing the empire's real revenue.
Finally, the rise of local potentates like Zahir al­'Umar and Ahmad Pasha al­
Jazzar, a second cycle of local dynastic rule several decades later, suggests
that these attempts at centralization were inadequate in the long run as well.

The Imperial Center and Provincial Administration

The emerging outline of Ottoman provincial administration in the first half of the
seventeenth century corroborates many of Kunt's conclusions. Most of the
local governors were indeed members of the ümera class. A few of them were
raised and educated in the sultan's palace, but beginning in the late sixteenth
century several ümera dynasties took control of ruling positions in the districts
of Palestine, and applied pressure on the center to pass these positions on to
their clients and sons. As a consequence a special amalgam emerged: an elite
that was Ottoman in its politics and its self­perception, yet deeply rooted in the
province as concerns its family ties, its assets and its peculiar cultural style. This
emerging local­Ottoman elite recognized Istanbul as the legitimate source of
political power, and did not try to break away completely from its hold, but at
the same time created a local power base and attempted to increase the
measure of its autonomy. At first, when the alliance of southern governors
fought and defeated the rebel Fakhr al­Din, this tendency to localize
government coincided with the center's political aims. Later on, however, the
central government tried to introduce its own representatives, without giving up
the expertise and experience of the locals.

Kunt's assumption that the Ottoman government tended to move district

governors from one position to the next within the same general area in order
to retain their knowledge of the region, while limiting their period in office so as
not to allow them time to build a power base, sums up this ambivalent Ottoman
attitude. The Farrukhs, for instance, were frequently transferred from
Jerusalem to Nabulus, and at times just barely managed to retain the title of
amir al­hajj. These tendencies were evident all around the Ottoman Empire,
but focusing on the case of Jerusalem and its ajacent districts provides us with
some insights into the working of the system. Two subsystems vied for power
in the empire. The first, the imperial administration, based its claim on its
authority, on it legitimacy, and on the center's military power, usually effective
enough as a vague threat. The second, a local one, opted to carve out a piece
of the imperial cake for itself, building its own power on accumulated riches,
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on a set of alliances and on the invaluable experience gained through years of

control. Governor appointments, therefore, were not simply decided by the
sultan and his aides. They were the result of a complex series of pressures and
needs in which the ümera had a lot to say. The kind of ties described here
between neighboring governing lineages, the creation of extended families and
the fact that we find members of the extended family moving about between
the same few districts, suggest that the limited movement of district governors
at the period was as much a result of their own pressure as it was a result of
the center's policy. Even when governors were transferred from one district to
another, they usually exerted much pressure to remain in the extended family's
realm and augment its power.

In his research on the Edirne incident, the 1703 revolt in Istanbul, Rifaat Abou
al­Haj suggests that a similar process has taken place in Istanbul itself: Pashas
and vezirs in the center took over the recruitment of manpower for government
service, striving to block the sultan's own recruitment agencies. The real
struggle, therefore, may have involved these two groups: (1) the "central
ümera"—vezirs and senior officials in the imperial center and their clients, and
(2) the provincial ümera dynasties. 58

Kunt's work ends in the middle of the seventeenth century. The years that
followed constitute an important new phase in the history of Ottoman
provincial administration. In the course of the 1670s the Farrukh­Ridwan­
Turabay ümera complex was destroyed. Local dynasties were replaced by
governors appointed from Istanbul. Command of the hajj caravan was taken
from their hands and conferred on the governor of Damascus. The immediate
reasons for these steps are not recorded. It may have been another phase in
the struggle between the center and the provinces, or a concerted attempt of
the Köprülü administration to recentralize control of the provinces. In any case,
the Ottoman success in destroying the local­Ottoman elite was not followed by
a strong, efficient centralized administration, and therefore did not bear the
expected fruit. Instead of reinforcing government control, the disappearance of
local dynasties brought about more disorder and weakened Ottoman
control.59
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Chapter 3
The Sufi Connection
Jerusalem Notables in the Seventeenth Century
As the seventeenth century drew to a close, and the central government faced
the harsh realities of a defeat in Vienna and the Karlowitz treaty, Ottoman
statesmen had to shift the focus of their attention inward. The following century
began ominously, rebellion breaking out almost everywhere. A considerable
effort was needed to quell these rebellions, and to restore a somewhat diluted
version of Ottoman law and order.

The most famous incident, known as the Edirne vakasi, broke out in
Istanbul—the heart of the empire—in 1703, and resulted in the deposition of
the sultan, and the rise to power of his younger brother, Ahmed III. Revolts
and incidents on a smaller scale broke out in Damascus (in 1695, 1706 and
1725), in Cairo (in 1711) and in Jerusalem (in 1703). These revolts apparently
had very little in common. They occurred in different locations. They were not
simultaneous or sequential. Sometimes years elapsed between one incident and
the next, and in each case the social groups taking part, the government's
approach to the problem, and the outcome for the parties concerned were
different. Sometimes the rebels achieved part of their goals, sometimes they
lost their heads. 1

These occurences are usually seen as a violent response to centralization

efforts, or as resistance to corrupt and oppressive Ottoman rule. But while this
may explain the reasons, it does not provide a fun understanding of the social
forces initiating the revolt, or those participating in it. Some works, such as
Rifaat Abou el­Haj's research on the 1703 revolt in Istanbul,
 Page 64

refer to the connection between the circumstances of the revolt itself, and the
social and political aspirations of social strata in the Ottoman elite. Abou El­
Haj does not define the Edirne vakasi as a revolt of one social group against
the sultan, but points out the fact that the instigators behind the actual rebels
were part of an emerging social stratum. Descriptions of other revolts in the
same period tend to suggest that they too were initiated and led by people of
high social standing and considerable political power, usually referred to as
''notables." 2

The importance of notables in Ottoman political history is well known, and

needs but a short introduction. The term was first used by Uzuncarsili, followed
by Gibb and Bowen in their book Islamic Society and the West. Gibb and
Bowen assumed that these notables—referred to as ayan (a'yan in Arabic)—
were people distinguished by their considerable landed property, and chosen
by the public to represent its interests. In the eighteenth century they took over
the administration in most major cities, and considerably weakened the qadi's
power.3

A more accurate definition was suggested by Albert Hourani. Inspired by Max

Weber's definition of the "patriciate" in Western cities, Hourani poses three
main conditions for the development of a type of politics that includes notables.
First of all, direct and personal links of patronage exist between a group of
influential patrons in the city and other subjects, with many in the villages
working and producing for this group. Second, patrons reside in the city and
control much of its administrative and economic structure. Third, the patrons or
notables enjoy considerable political leeway, either as a result of the city's
independence, or when the city is governed by a distant or indifferent
monarchy (more often the case in the Islamic world).4 In order to be
influential, the notables must have some political clout, and yet be viewed by
the government and the people as representatives of the population. The
special position of the notables is based on their being a mediating stratum
between the government and its subjects. They must therefore be careful in
their dealings with both sides. They must be sufficiently independent not to be
identified with the government, and yet be wary of actions which could be
interpreted as acts of rebellion against it.5

This role has been assumed by various city­based groups. In Ottoman towns
and cities three such groups can be found. The first is that of the ulema, whose
power emanated from their high standing as upholders of the shari'a and from
their central importance in the day­to­day management of the empire, as well
as from the fact that they usually came from well­established prestigious
families. Over time these families managed to acquire certain wealth through
control of waqf foundations and through commerce. The religious institutions'
role as a channel for social mobility also lent it a great deal of prestige.6
 Page 65

Commanders and officers of military units stationed in the city constitute the
second such group. Their power stemmed from their control of local garrisons,
which more often than not developed an independent esprit de corps loyal to
its own commanders. The officers were usually under the imperial center's
command, and sometimes opposed the local governor. Strong ties developed
between these military units and local merchants, allowing them to intervene in
local politics and economy. A third group was made up of "secular notables"—
families who attained their status and power through past connections to the
military or political establishments, from their famous ancestry, or from the
stronger cohesion ('asabiyya), of certain families, controlling large waqf
foundations. 7

Hourani does not give an exact periodization for the rise of notables m the
Ottoman Empire, but through his examples and contexts, it becomes apparent
that the formation process of the "notable estate" takes place mainly in the
eighteenth century, reaching its apex at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
In every part of the empire different groupings rose to power. In Egypt they
comprised mainly military commanders of Mamluk households, and the same
phenomenon can be discerned in Zahir al­Umar's and Jazzar Pasha's Acre, as
well as in the Mamluk households in Baghdad. In Mosul the ulema
incorporated rich merchant families into the local notable group, while in the
towns and cities of Syria the leading part was assumed by the ancient and
prestigious bourgeoisie, headed by the ashraf. This formation was so dominant
that it absorbed the descendants of mamluk households and other military
elites.8

A series of revolts in the middle of the nineteenth century marks a turning point
in the history of the notables, as they tried to rebel against authoritarian and
centralizing governments in Istanbul and Cairo. But after a short period of
decline, they reappeared as leaders of national resistance movements.9

Halil Inalcik examines the notables in the specific context of the Ottoman
Empire from a different angle—their bid for political power, and their
ambivalent relations with the central government10 . This is presented as a
complex equation: on the one hand, the stronger the central government, the
weaker the notables. On the other hand, there is mutual attraction, as the
notables seek to be incorporated into the governing elite. Inalcik sees wealth as
the main criterion for notable status, and the Ottoman agrarian systems of
iltizam and mukataa (muqata'), as the means for self enrichment most often
pursued. There were two main groups of notables­the military, who had askeri
('askari) status and therefore belonged to the governing elite, and local ulema
and merchants of the unpriviledged reaya, who were not officially recognized
as state officials. In the second half of the seventeenth century, notables of
reaya status started to infiltrate
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government positions, mainly as representatives of governors, usually called

mutasallim (mütesellim), voyvoda or subasi. Only in the eighteenth century
did the notables manage to get incorporated into the state's service, and win
the titles of bey and pasa . As such titles were conferred on them, they can no
longer be called notables (or ayan), and must be perceived as part of the
Ottoman establishments. 11

In the eighteenth century, at the height of their power, the notables effectively
controlled entire provinces. In many districts general councils evolved,
comprising qadis, notables and military commanders. Already in 1680 the
Ottoman government proclaimed a set of rules for the election of a reis­i ayan,
or head of the notables, from among his peers, and at the beginning of the
eighteenth century a formal appointment letter was sent to the holder of the
post. But at the same time the central government felt the need to curb the
power of the ayan, and to force them to abide by its laws and regulations. A
series of steps taken by the government in that direction heralded the beginning
of nineteenth century centralization efforts.12

Karl Barbir, examining Ottoman rule in Damascus in the eighteenth century,

takes into account both Inalcik's and Hourani's views on the notables. Barbir
suggests a clearer definition of the notables as social groups whose power
stemmed mainly from mediating between the government and the population.
This definition excludes groups like the lords of the valleys (derebeys) in
Anatolia, locally based governors in Syrian districts, or Mamluk households in
Egypt. Although not officially a part of government, these latter groups did in
fact constitute part of the ruling institution, or at least tried to replace it.
Furthermore, Barbir suggests that a'yan in the Arab provinces were mostly of
the first kind—ulema and their affiliates—and that a'yan of the second and
third kinds—namely military commanders and "secular" families—were more
common in the European provinces. This definition allows us to distinguish
between local governing elites, and local notables who, at that period, seldom
governed by themselves.13

Research done by Inalcik, Hourani, Barbir and others focuses on the

eighteenth century as the crux of notable politics. They all agree that its roots
are to be found in the previous century, and perhaps even before that. Their
research, however, does not provide us with a clear picture of this evolution in
the sixteenth and seventeenth century. When did notables start to see
themselves as a distinct group? When did they start taking an interest in local
politics, and, finally, were the widespread incidents at the beginning of the
eighteenth century part of this general process?
 Page 67

The eruption of revolt in Jerusalem at the beginning of the eighteenth century,

led by a group of ulema and ashraf, raises similar questions in the local
context: whether such a group of notables emerged in the city at the time, what
its social and cultural characteristics were, and what its aspirations were.
Another relevant question pertains to the depth of the group's penetration into
local politics, and the aims of the revolt.

A Question of Terminology

The main source for the frequent use of the term a'yan as a synonym for
"notables" is probably the many firmans addressed to the a'yan (usually in the
Turkish form: ayan­i vilayet ve is erleri—"the a'yan of the province, and men
of affairs"). This term has been used extensively, but, as many sources from the
period itself reveal, "a'yan " was a general term, describing men of the elite, or
men in elevated positions, and was not meant to distinguish between local
notables and Ottoman governors, or their entourages. 14 In fact, the sijill uses
this term as an honorific title for dignitaries of the governing elite, many of
whom were foreign or localized foreigners, while local notables had other titles
bestowed on them, as can be gathered from this list of people assembled in
court in 1652:
After sheikh 'Abd al­Karim al­Samit was arrested, many notables arrived in
court, including 'Umar efendi the mufti of the shafi'is, Shams al­Din efendi,
naqib al­ashraf sheikh Ahmad al­Hamidi, the mufti of the Malikis, the model of
teachers (qudwat al­mudarrisin) sheikh Sharaf al­Din al­Dayri, the model of
imams sheikh Sulayman al­Da'udi, nazir al­nuzzar, the pride of righteous men
sheikh 'Abd al­Rahman…the paragon of amirs (qudwat al­umara') Mustafa
bey, the pride of the a'y an (fakhr al ­a'y an) 'Ali the alaybey [commander of the
sipahis] in Jerusalem,pride of the elevated and a 'y an , Ahmad al­Khawza'i,
pride of the a'y an Husayn aga, the mutasallim of Jerusalem, The pride of the
elevated and the a'y an Muhammad aga the commander of the citadel, and the
head merchant (sheikh al­tujjar) 'Abd al­Jawwad.15

Those referred to as a'yan in this document, as in many others, are the military
commander of the sipahi cavalry, the governor's deputy, and the commander
of the citadel. All held official Ottoman positions and titles, and did not see
themselves as part of the local notable elite. The ulema­based local notables
are given a plethora of names and titles—"the model of teachers," "the pride of
the righteous," and so on—but none are referred to as a'yan . It appears then
that the term a'yan was not used by people in the period under discussion to
denote the local notable elite. It is
 Page 68

possible, although this would require further research, that at a later period, in
which it was used by the notables themselves, the term expressed a sense of
cohesion and identity not yet achieved in the early period. For lack of a more
suitable name, therefore, this group shall be defined as "the local notable elite,"
or "the notables" in order to set it apart from the other distinct group, which
should perhaps be termed "the local­Ottoman governing elite," or simply the
"governing elite," described in the previous chapter. 16

The Role of Sufi Fraternities

The two elite groups evolved side by side in Jerusalem from the time of the
Ottoman conquest. Both groups—the governing elite, based mainly on
Ottoman ümera and on local, pre­Ottoman military units, and the notable elite,
comprised almost entirely of ulema and ashraf—experienced many ups and
downs throughout the first two hundred years of Ottoman rule. But until the
beginning of the eighteenth century, these two distinct groups did not merge
into one elite, and did not control the local government and the religious
institutions jointly. They were set apart by their cultural discourse and identity,
and usually by their ethnic origins, as well as by the positions and titles
conferred on them by the Ottoman government.

There was also a third group, descended for the most part from Mamluk or
Ottoman military groups. These apparently formed a cohesive small elite of
their own. Looked down at by the local ulema­based notability, and by the
new local­Ottoman governing elite, they perceived of themselves as part of the
higher echelons of society, enjoying some of the benefits of former rank and
commission, but very little actual political power. The Mamluk pattern of
socialization also expressed itself in the courts of local governors, such as the
Farrukhs, Ridwans and Turabays, where several generations of lesser officers
were raised and bound by links of patronage to the governing elite. Only in
rare cases did the local notability merge with these groups, when daughters of
officers married local notables, in which case the family would be assimilated
into the local notable group, leaving few traces of its "military" past.17

For quite some time close ties existed between the local notables and their
governing peers. These ties were based mainly on a common cultural world
which was created by and found expression in Sufi brotherhoods. In the city of
Jerusalem, the connection between Sunni orthodoxy and the sufi fraternities or
tariqas (literally, a road or path to true knowledge of God) was unusually
vigorous. Suspicion and aversion, which characterized such relations at other
times and in other places, were replaced
 Page 69

by a great affinity and impressive cooperation. One of the reasons may by the
prestige of two famous Sufi families, al­'Alami and al­Dajjani, residing in the
city. These families influenced Jerusalem's character as a religious and cultural
center, and attracted many sufi visitors.

'Abd al­Ghani al­Nabulsi, a well known Sufi and 'alim from Damascus, visited
the city several times in the late seventeenth century and wrote about its cultural
and religious life. 18 Al­Nabulsi describes a proliferation of sufi fraternities in
the city and around it. As he approached the city walls, he recounts, a group of
Sufis of the Adhamiyya brotherhood welcomed him and accompanied him
through the Damascus gate. Strolling along the streets and around the mosque
of al­Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock, he noticed many active sufi meeting
places—zawiyas (zaviye) and takiyyas (tekye). Among others he mentions
the names of the Mawlawis (Mevlevis), the Shadhilis (sazilis) and the
Kalandaris (Kalenderis), in addition to the famous tariqa of the Dajjanis and
the 'Alami As'adiyya, which was a branch of the Shadhili order. Other Sufi
prayer sites were inside the sprawling Khasikiyya waqf complex and in several
of the better­known madrasas and colleges in town. The remarkable series of
receptions held in the houses of local notables and officials in honor of the
famous Sufi visitor is further evidence of the high esteem in which the local
orthodox establishment viewed the sufis.

Evliya Çelebi also describes Jerusalem as an important Sufi center. Always

prone to exaggeration, Evliya claims to have seen seventy different Sufi
fraternities in the city, all with their own places of worship. He mentions the
Ahmadiyya, the Rifa'iyya and the Mawlawiyya, whose mosque is close to
Damascus gate. All these establishments, recounts Evliya, are spacious and
well built, and all enjoy the prosperity of rich waqf endowments.19

Biographies of ulema and other Jerusalem notables transmitted by al­Muhibbi,

shed some light on the unwritten covenant between the ulema and the Sufi
orders. It appears from these biographies that al­Azhar in Cairo was the main
center of learning for Jerusalem ulema. Many sent their sons there in order to
study juisprudence (fiqh), hadith and other sharia sciences. In Cairo's colleges
young ulema received their degrees, and sometimes replaced their original
schools of legal doctrine (madhhabs) by new ones. Few chose (or could
afford) to study in the great madrasas of Istanbul, despite the obvious career
paths such an education offered.20

Al­Azhar was considered a strict orthodox college, where Sufi tendencies

were frowned upon. Most of the ulema did not "receive their tariqas" there,
not even outside the standard curriculum. Still, in most of the biographies
described by al­Muhibbi, Palestinian ulema completed this part of their
education when they came home. Here, mainly in Jerusalem, the connection
between orthodox religion and Sufi brotherhoods was
 Page 70

natural and almost automatic. Many of the ulema found their way into the
Ottoman administration, while holding on to their Sufi beliefs. 21

One such scholar was 'Abd al­Ghaffar ibn Yusuf al­Qudsi "al­'ajami" (d.
1647), who studied hadith and fiqh in Cairo. Upon his return he was appointed
hanafi mufti of Jerusalem. At the same time he studied the principles of the
Naqshbandiyya, a well­known orthodox tariqa, from Muhammad al­
Naqshbandi, and the 'Ulwaniyya from sheikh Muhammad al­Dajjani, and
joined both tariqas. So did Muhammad ibn Ahmad al­Khurayshi, the hanbali
mufti at the end of the previous century (d. 1592), whose Sufi beliefs led him to
preach asceticism, thereby crossing the vague line between accepted and
heretic Sufi doctrine. A well­known shafi'i scholar, 'Abd al­Qadir ibn Ahmad
al­Ghazzi (d. 1676), became a holy man (waliy), following in the footsteps of
his famous mentor, Muhammad al­'Alami. Sons of ashraf families, headed by
the Wafa'is, better known later on as the Husaynis, were also part of the Sufi
circle.22

People who came from prominent Sufi families were members of high standing
in the orthodox establishment. Thus, Muhammad ibn Ahmad al­Dajjani (d.
1617), a "possessed" (majdhob) Sufi, became mufti of the shafi'iyya, and the
'Alamis themselves, heads of the rifa'i tariqa, are frequently described as
ulema of great distinction in fiqh and hadith.23 The French priest Roger, who
stayed in Jerusalem for some time, was impressed by the Sufis, and by their
social standing. Roger sees them as Muslim monks, very much like their
Christian counterparts—separated from the rest of the people, perhaps
celibate, and devoted to God. Their monasteries, he says, are clean and well
kept. They grow flowers in their gardens, and play music, which constitutes an
important part of their liturgy. Upon arrival in Jerusalem, many of them attend
mass at the convent of the Holy Saviour, and are enchanted by its music. They
are respected by the people, many of whom bequeath their property to Sufi
orders. They are also held in high esteem by the governor and his entourage,
who join in their ceremonies and pray with them.24 "Lords, Pashas and
governors usually have one of these Sufis by their side, and when they go
away, they set them up in their own tents and pavillions"25

The sijill adds its own layer of description to the world of Sufis and ulema in
Jerusalem, and traces the process whereby tariqas allied themselves with the
local­Ottoman governing elite. Several of Jerusalem's governors in the first half
of the century were either active members, or at least enthusiastic supporters of
Sufi tariqas. They may have been influenced in this tendency by friends and
allies in Istanbul or Damascus, other strongholds of Sufi doctrines. Governors
provided financial support for their favorite orders, and under their patronage
Sufi sheikhs accumulated great wealth.26
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Along with property bequeathed or dedicated to Sufi orders by ulema, the

sijill records several formal dedications of waqfs by governors or other high
officials to their favorite Sufi tariqa. A waqf dedicated by a governor of
Jerusalem to the order of the Mawlawiyya is discussed in a series of records in
the sijill. According to the first record, on 5 Rabi' al­Thani 1033 (27
December 1623), a large hakura (orchard, garden) in the quarter of bab al­
'Amud was bought by Muhammad Pasha, governor of Jerusalem, from the
lady 'A'ida khaton. The orchard, an inheritance from the lady's husband,
Khosh Khabar Aga, a janissary in Jerusalem, included fig trees, other fruit­
bearing trees and rose bushes. 27

On the morrow, Muhammad Pasha reappeared in the majlis (the shari'a

court) and in the presence of several witnesses declared his will to dedicate the
orchard as a waqf. Those entitled to enjoy its fruit, he stipulated, shall be, first
and foremost, the Mawlawi Sufis. If they, for some reason, become extinct at
some future date, the income should be divided among the other Sufis in
Jerusalem. He further stipulated that the waqf's mutawalli (supervisor) should
be Ahmad efendi, sheikh of the Mawlawiyya.28

Documents in the sijill concerning debts and credit provide an indication of the
wealth of Mawlawi Sufis. At the end of Jumada al­thani 1100 (April 1689),
the sheikh of the Mawlawis was summoned to the qadi to present his
establishments balance sheets. The balance, copied into the sijill, shows that
during the year in question the tariqa's income was 2,050.75 ghurosh, a very
substantial sum. The tariqa controlled a series of waqfs, made up mostly of
shops and houses in the city, some of which were dedicated by members of
the governing elite. Other tariqas, including the Rifa'iyya overseen by the
'Alami family, also managed to accumulate wealth and to exert a great deal of
influence as owners of land and property.29

The two spheres of contact—the one shared by Sufis and orthodox ulema, the
other between governors and Sufis, were reinforced by a third sphere,
comprising considerable parts of both—that which included local ulema and
members of the governing elite. Since most ulema were members of Sufi
groups, and since Sufi brotherhoods acted as cultural and religious centers of
meaning for governors and their entourages as well, it was only natural for the
two elites to find a common world of discourse.

This discourse was complemented by other ties between the two groups. Al­
Muhibbi mentions the special relationship between the great jurisconsult Khayr
al­Din al­Ramli, and Ahmad Pasha ibn Ridwan, a famous governor of Gaza
and Jerusalem and a patron of ulema. Ahmad Pasha's grandson, Husayn
Pasha, is also remembered for his patronage of many ulema. Several other men
of religion whose biographies are recorded by Muhibbi were employed in the
courts of such governors. Close
 Page 72

relations were made possible by the fact that during the first seventy years of
the century, governors were very often part of a local dynasty, or appointed
for longer periods. 30

Supported and encouraged by the governing elite, the emerging group of local
notables accumulated considerable wealth and increased its influence among
the rest of the population. Later on, when centralization efforts threatened their
achievements, an influential notability enlisted the support of many inside and
outside the city. This process, which led to the emergence of the notables as a
cohesive and determined group, can best be described by following in the
footsteps of three such families throughout the seventeenth century.

The Making of Notable Families

The 'Alamis

The 'Alami family, which was most prominent in Jerusalem's Sufi establishment,
traced its ancestry to the Maghribi Sufi 'Alam al­Din Sulayman (d. 1388) and
to the famous saint (waliy) Ibn Mashish. The founders of the Jerusalem branch
of the family probably arrived in the city in the fourteenth century. Two
prominent members of the family were appointed city governors (na'ib al­
saltana) and comptrollers of the holy mosques (nazir al­haramayn) in the
Mamluk period.31

Following the Ottoman conquest in 1516, the 'Alamis lost some of their former
political power, but were quick to regain it. At the end of the sixteenth century
rumors began to spread about the miracles and supernatural powers of
Muhammad al­'Alami. Soon his reputation reached far and wide, and added to
the family's prestige. Aided by sheikh As'ad ibn Hasan, the grand mufti of
Istanbul, Muhammad al­'Alami had a mosque built for his tariqa on the Mount
of Olives. When he died, in 1038/1628, his family buried him in the mosque,
which later became a place of pilgrimage.32 The sijill records the dedication
of a waqf by the grand mufti in Istanbul, Sheikh As'ad Abu Sa'id. The waqf's
property included several houses, a flour mill and a bakery. Its profits were to
be given to the Sufis of the As'adiyya mosque (al­khankah al­As'adiyya)
headed by sheikh Muhammad al­'Alami. It is further stipulated that Sheikh
Muhammad will be the waqf's comptroller, and will appoint all its employees.
All profits accruing to the waqf and not dispensed will be passed on to Sheikh
Muhammad and his descendants.33

This waqf, as well as other, smaller ones dedicated to the sheikh or given to
him as presents, served as a basis for the family's enrichment in later years. The
sheikh's son, 'Abd al­Qadir al­'Alami (d. 1079/1668)—mentioned
 Page 73

by al­Muhibbi as a well­known and honest 'alim—masterminded the

economic moves made by the family. 'Abd al­Qadir invested mainly in land
and property. He bought houses in the city, rented bath houses and
workshops, got concessions from the qadi to use rainwater in the Holy
Sepulcher's reservoir, and administered the many bakeries and flour mills
already in the family's possession. Later on, he acquired the right to collect
village taxes, and bought land in several regions. 34

'Abd al­Qadir also enjoyed the privileges shared by other ulema and Sufis in
the city. He received small grants from Istanbul and was exempt from most
taxes imposed on the rest of the population. His name, along with that of his
son, appears on the list of recipients of kharaj (harac) payments, and on lists
of ulema receiving surra (sürre)—annual grants of money from Istanbul. Ihsan
al­Nimr, a twentieth century local historian, mentions an 'Abd al­Qadir al­
'Alami as qadi in Nabulus in the middle of the seventeenth century, indicating
perhaps his main occupation and another source of wealth.35

Other members of the family also dealt in commerce and apparently amassed a
considerable fortune. The Dajjanis, a rival Sufi family, followed a similar path.
Members of both families would sometimes fight in court over property, debts
or trade rights. At the end of the century the 'Alamis portrayed in the sijill are
a rich family, famous for their religious and Sufi knowledge, with a widening
sphere of political influence in the city and around it. A later biographer, al­
Muradi, writing in the eighteenth century, describes another member of the
family, Abu al­Wafa' al­'Alami, as a great sheikh, perhaps the leader of Sufi
sheikhs in town (shaykh al­shuyukh bi­l­quds al­sharif) and recounts that the
'Alamis were one of the most famous families in the city. This is corroborated
by the Sufi writer al­Nabulsi, who became Abu al­Wafa's close friend.36

The Husaynis (Wafa'is)

Records of formal requests by people to be considered ashraf attest to the

considerable benefits to be gained by joining this privileged group. At times, as
in the following record, a special inquiry was needed to establish the applicants'
credentials before allowing them to wear the green turban and enjoy this most
coveted status:
Sayyid Hamuda ibn Salah al­Majdali arrived in the majlis today, and presented a
document (tadhkara, tezkere) signed by the naqib al­ashraf in Jerusalem, glory
of all sadat (ashraf) Mustafa efendi. According to the document, on the date
shown the naqib received a delegation made up of Sayyid Ahmad al­Jindasi,
Sayyid Salih al­majdali, and
 Page 74

Sayyid Musa ibn Salih. All testified that Hamuda is a sharif on his mother's side,
her mother being a scion of the waliy, Sheikh 'Awad. When all this was proven
to his satisfaction, the naqib allowed the above mentioned Hamuda to place on
his head the green turban worn by all his colleagues the sadat, and thus
command the honor and consideration that his position entitles him to.

Sayyid Hamuda requested that this document be registered in the sijill. His
request was accepted, and the document was duly authenticated and copied, on
the 22 Rabi' al­Awwal 1086 (16 July 1675). 37

Later known as the Husaynis, the Wafa'is are mentioned, as early as the mid­
fifteenth century, as one of Jerusalem's influential families, and as nuqaba al­
ashraf. Later, in a 1615 record, 'Abd al­Qadir al­Husayni is mentioned as
''sayyid al­sadat," or head of the ashraf in the city. In another record 'Abd al­
Qadir is summoned to the majlis, and asked to testify that an order given by
the pasha in Damascus to the governor of Jerusalem, commanding him to
rebuild and fortify several castles on the road to Mecca, cannot be fulfilled.
The governor claimed that he was unable to carry out the order for several
reasons, while 'Abd al­Qadir testified to the effect that this request was
unprecedented and therefore bordered on the illegal. The summons may have
been issued because the naqib, being part of an old, established family, had a
long memory of things past.38

An appointment as naqib al­ashraf carried with it certain duties as an

arbitrator, as a representative of certain waqfs, and as an objective witness in
matters involving local elite groups. These duties are recorded in the sijill:
Half of the taxes levied from the village of Qaryat al­'Inab (west of Jerusalem)
belong to waqf al­Dawla al­Hasana. The other half should be divided equally
between the two timars, that of the sipahi called 'Ajam zade, and that of
Sulayman ibn 'Abdalla, a dependent (tabi') of Shams aga. On Muharram of 1033
(November 1623) several villagers from the said village arrived in court with 4
qintars of pure [olive] oil, to be divided among those entitled to it. The
weighing and division were attended by the naqib, Sayyid 'Abd al­Qadir al­
Wafa'i.39

That same year 'Abd al­Qadir is also mentioned as shaykh haram al­quds
(sheikh of the Jerusalem holy sanctuary), and as a debtor demanding payment
from villagers in the vicinity. The records imply that the debt in question was in
fact village taxes rented by the Husaynis.40

During the somber years of Muhammad ibn Farrukh's reign, the Husayni family
went on building its fortune, and was apparently on good
 Page 75

terms with the notorious governor. In the 1630s 'Abd al­Qadir was replaced
by his son, Shams al­Din. Like his 'Alami contemporary, Shams bought land
and property, making use of the vast waqf properties at his disposal. In 1635
he is mentioned, alongside 'Abd al­Qadir al­'Alami, as a recipient of the
kharaj. Like his father he often appears as arbitrator or witness in the shari'a
court. On special occasions recorded in the sijill, his name is the first to
appear on the list of local notables attending, further proof of his elevated
status. 41

At the turn of the century the title was held by Mustafa al­Husayni. Mustafa's
son, Muhammad, who inherited the title from his father in February of 1700,
was a prominent leader of the emerging notable elite, and the main force
behind the uprising known today as "the Naqib al­ashraf revolt," in 1702–3.
The uprising's eventual failure brought about the downfall of the Husaynis and
their replacement in the role of nuqaba' al­ashraf by a lesser known family—
al­Ghudayya. In the middle of the eighteenth century the Ghudayyas changed
their name to al­Husayni, reviving the name of their predecessors.42

The 'Asalis

The seventeenth century witnessed the rise of several rich merchant families.
Prominent among them were the 'Asalis and their peers and rivals, the Mirliz
family. At the beginning of the century, members of the 'Asali clan are
mentioned in sijill records of purchase contracts concerning workshops and
small businesses. Khawaja (in that period, a common title for merchants)
Muhammad al­'Asali is mentioned in 1013/1605 as shaykh al­tujjar (bazar
basi, head of the merchants) in the city, and it seems that the title passed on in
the family for several generations.43

Later on another son of the family is mentioned, one that would lead the family
for most of the century­Sheikh 'Abd al­Jawwad al­'Asali. As a prominent
figure among the city's merchants, he was frequently summoned to court to
testify or to provide an expert opinion on a variety of business and production
issues. His title also placed him a step above the rest of the merchants on the
social ladder. In public gatherings at the majlis, 'Abd al­Jawwad's name and
title were mentioned frequently at the end of the list of notables, as a sort of
barrier between the names of the elite and the nameless description (jama'a
min al­muslimin) of the rest of the people attending.44

'Abd al­Jawwad held the same position during the 1660s and 1670s,
accumulating property and social status. Marriage records in the sijill show
that he paid very high sums as bride­price for his sons. One of his sons married
into the rival merchant family, Mirliz, but the other two married
 Page 76

upwards and traversed the social divide. Kamal al­Din married Zahira bint
Sharaf al­Din Efendi, daughter of a famous and distinguished scholar. The
mahr (dower) paid was 600 ghurosh, an unprecedented sum in Jerusalem at
the time. Another son, Sulayman, married into a military family and apparently
managed to buy himself a formal title. In records of commercial transactions,
he is referred to as "the paragon of grand and noble (qudwat al­amajid wa­l­
a'yan) Sulayman Bey ibn 'Abd al­Jawwad." 45

For his fourth son, Salih, 'Abd al­Jawwad chose the religious profession. Salih
was taught in the best schools, and upon graduation was given the privileged
post of reading the Qur'an in al­Aqsa mosque. This position placed him on the
lists of those receiving salaries and moneyed gifts from Istanbul. It also allowed
him to engage in commerce without paying taxes, and soon he became one of
the richest people in the city. In his book, al­Nabulsi describes a visit to Sheikh
Salih's house in 1690. Although a resident of Damascus, the provincial capital,
al­Nabulsi was impressed by the opulence of "the pride of mighty and noble,
the essence of generosity in our time, Sheikh Salih al­'Asali." He depicts in
detail the marvelous house, the fountains in the drawing room, and the delicious
food served to the many guests.46

The 'Asalis had made it to a secure niche in the higher echelons of the notable
elite. In later years they bought other titles, local janissary commissions and
government positions. More than any other family, the 'Asalis made good use
of the meager possibilities for social mobility and elite integration inherent in the
social system.

Integration of Governing and Notable Elites

Rich and influential local notable families tried to ally themselves with the local
Ottoman governing elite. In an article about the integration of Turkish­speaking
Ottomans into Damascene society, Barbir argues that relatively large groups of
Turkish speakers settled in the city during this period. These groups included
Sekban47 fleeing from Anatolia, former janissaries and some ulema. They
developed a subculture different from that of the governing elite, and in the
seventeenth century began to merge with parts of the local society, changing its
culture in the process. Mixed marriages were very popular, and proved to be
the best means for quick integration.48

In Jerusalem this phenomenon was not as common. This may be attributed to

the provincial character of the city and to its remoteness from the main arteries
of transportation. Another variety of integration was apparent here—a
tendency of the governing elite itself, especially its second generations, to
assimilate into the local notability, and a parallel tendency
 Page 77

of nonmilitary groups to buy their way into the military. As in Damascus,

marriage proved to be the most efficient integrator, as the following record,
referring to Sulayman al­'Asali's transactions, demonstrates:
On the 8th Ramadan 1100 (26 June 1689), the former mir alay (commander of
sipahis) in Jerusalem, Ishaq bey ibn Mustafa bey, bought a coffee house in the
quarter of bab al­'Amud [the exact location is specified in the record]. The
sellers were Bihan Fakhr, daughter of Ahmad al­shurbaji (çorbaci—janissary
officer) and wife of 'Abd al­Karim al­Shurbaji, and Sulayman bey al­'Asali,
representing his wife 'Aida khatun bint 'Abd al­Karim al­Shurbaji. [Other
members of 'Abd al­Karim's family are also mentioned as sellers.] 49

This sales deed of a deceased janissary officer's coffee house, transferred to

his sons and daughters as part of the inheritance, reveals a family well
entrenched in Jerusalem, with complex family connections and property in the
city. One of his daughters married Sulayman bey al­'Asali, a member of the
rich local merchant family on the rise. This was Sulayman al­'Asali's ticket of
admission into the governing elite of the city, for which he paid a substantial
sum of money. But the marriage had also initiated another process—the
integration of 'Aida Khatun and her family into the local notability. Along with
her dowry, 'Aida undoubtedly brought along some of the imperial center's
culture, which was to influence local notables for years to come.

At the same time, the families of local governors and their descendants also
settled down in the towns of Palestine. Many of the Farrukhs, Turabays and
Ridwans (described in detail in the previous chapter) chose to reside in
Damascus, but others remained in Nabulus, Gaza and Jerusalem. Apparently
relinquishing their ties to power and politics, they disappeared over time into
the big local notable families.

Local Notables and the Social Divide

To the extent that its members were aware of belonging to a separate group,
the local notables saw themselves as equal to, or even higher in status than, the
governing elite, with the exception of the governor, his deputy and the qadi
(who was also usually appointed from Istanbul and formally considered part of
the governing group). Evidence in the sijill suggests that this was also the view
held by the qadi and his court. In long pecking­order lists of participants in
special events, local notables figure high on the list. Their names were inscribed
in the records immediately after those of the qadi and the governor or his
senior representative, preceding all other high­ranking janissary and sipahi
officers. This is one of many examples:
 Page 78

The paragon of sublime amirs, mainstay of mighty seers, 'Asaf bey, governor of
Nabulus and of the noble hajj arrived in the majlis today. It was brought to his
knowledge, he announced, that his deputy (kethüda), 'Ali bashsha, 50 had
abused and mistreated the subjects, and took away their money with no legal
justification. He therefore summoned all the magnates and a'yan of the town—
the ulema, the zu'ama' (holders of zeamets, large timar estates), the merchants
and the rest of the people (ghalib al­ra'aya) in the presence of the qadi, may
God show favor to his many qualities. [When they arrived] he made them take
an oath, upon God and his Prophet [and asked them:]—"Did you ever inform, or
hear, that 'Ali Kethüda had mistreated, hurt or harmed any of God's creatures, or
has taken money, or any other object with no legal justification? If something of
this kind ever presented itself to you, you are obliged to prove it. And if indeed
he did not behave honestly, I shall relieve him of his duties forever, and banish
him from my presence for eternity, for I do not seek the abuse of my subjects
and will not choose to do so in my reign.

Present in the majlis were the pride of teachers, Sheikh Abu Bakr, the shafi'i
mufti, the pride of the righteous sheikh Muhyi al­Din ibn Salah al­Din the imam,
the model of the righteous sheikh Kamal al­Din the imam, and the paragon of
orators Sheikh 'Amiq al­Din … and the pride of the high and noble "Ali aga ibn
Tuqlizade, müteferrika at the Sublime Porte,51 the pride of the noble Mustafa
bey, mir alay Nabulus, pride of the high and noble Mustafa bey ibn Muhammad
aga, the za'im, pride of the noble 'Ali bey ibn Muhammad bölük basi
(commander of janissaries) the za'im, pride of the mighty Ibrahim bey the za'im …
and the pride of merchants 'Ali Tuqqan, and the pride of merchants Khawaja
'Abd al­Rahhim al­Sabban (the soap­maker), and the pride of the merchants
Zayn al­Din Marwan, and Sheikh Idris ibn Sheikh Jarrar, head of most of
Nabulus's population (jull Nabulus) and a party of Muslims whose names shall
be written down at the end [of this record].

They all declared that "We have never heard any of these things about him, and
furthermore, we know that he has chosen to walk the straight path. We have not
heard of him abusing anyone, or taking anything by deceit."52

Taking into account the sijill's bias, favoring those who were part of the ulema
establishment, an "old boy" network based on the Ottoman madrasa system
and shared interests, we still have to consider the very clear hierarchical pattern
that emerges from this document and many others
 Page 79

like it. The pecking order is offered twice in this document, once in a general
form, presenting first the ulema and only later the timar holders of all ranks,
and the second time by name, following the same pattern. The first to be
mentioned are the leading local notables. Members of the military, including
very high­ranking officers, are next in line, and closing the list are several
prominent merchants and sheikhs. It is precisely this separation between the
merchants and the ulema, with officers in between, that emphasizes a formal
and structured hierarchy, looked upon as the natural order of things, at least in
this context, by all parties involved.

As Robert Darnton has shown, this does not necessarily mean that religious
notables were always held in high esteem, or that they occupied the first rungs
of the social ladder from everyone's vantage point. 53 But just as urban
processions or parades in the early modern period served to express the
corporate order of society, to emphasize its essence and quality, to provide "a
statement…through which the city represented itself to itself—and sometimes
to God," so did public gatherings in the city of Jerusalem. Muslim inhabitants of
the city used such gatherings in the majlis, God's court of law, to recreate and
reproduce their own microcosm of social order.54

Though it allowed some movement from one elite to the other through
marriage, religious learning or the purchase of titles, the borderline separating
the two elite groups was relatively well defined. This separation did not
generate any special friction between the two groups. Until the late seventeenth
century both groups worked together in relative harmony. If the Ottoman
Empire could be described as "a military­shari'a alliance," this unwritten
contract between two very different groups, which reinforced the cohesion of
the empire, was echoed on a much smaller scale in Jerusalem and in
neighboring sanjaqs. It was only later, towards the end of the century, that this
very delicate fabric of relations was disrupted.55

In contrast to this degree of permeability between the two elites, the dividing
line between notables and the rest of the unpriviledged population was rigid
and difficult to cross. The social divide did not distinguish ulema, ashraf and
very rich merchants from the rest of the local population. It cut through the
ulema and ashraf establishment. There were, of course, many merchants and
artisans who did not belong to the elite, but even within the establishments
there were many who did not succeed in crossing this very visible border,
demarcated by tax exemption and other privileges. Once the border had been
crossed, the new status was cemented in marriage agreements and in
receptions, as well as in sijill lists of summons to court, and in receiving a
"green light" from Istanbul, most likely in the form of inclusion in lists of annual
grants, or 'ulofa (ulufe) from the surra.
 Page 80

A riot in 1652 highlights the unrelenting struggles for 'ulofas in Jerusalem. At

the beginning of that year, we are told by the French traveler Jean Doubdan,
permission was given to the Franciscan monks to renovate and enlarge their
convent on Mount Zion. The Franciscans hired many Muslim masons and
workers, who started to dig under the foundations. In the process they
discovered ancient caves and cellars. Soon rumors began to circulate in town
alleging that the Christians were building a tunnel to connect their monastery to
the port of Jaffa, or even to the faraway island of Malta. Through these tunnels
new Crusader armies win emerge and conquer the holy city from Within. 57

When Muslim pilgrims came back to Jerusalem from their annual visitation to
the tomb of Moses (qabr nabi mosa, on the way to Jericho), several men of
religion among them conspired against the Christians. Playing on these
persistent rumors, the conspirators instigated the pilgrims gathered in the
courtyard of al­Aqsa to attack the Christians and the "traitors" who helped
them. An excited mob tried to attack the chief qadi who was praying nearby,
but he somehow managed to escape and hide away. The mob then made its
way to the Christian convent's gates, hurling large stones at the windows and
doors, and was close to breaking into the grounds. The monks and their
terrified guests were saved in the nick of time by a group of armed soldiers
from the governor's retinue.58

Doubdan tells his story through the eyes of his hosts, the Franciscans, who,
though more experienced, had very little knowledge of the motive force behind
the riot. A deeper, more complicated set of motives emerges from several
accounts of the same incident in the sijill:
On the 19th of Jumada al­Ula 1062 (28 April 1652) a group of notables arrived in
the majlis. Among them were heads of the ulema, the mutasallim [the
governor's representative], the sipahi commander, the commander of the castle,
the head of the merchants and a large group of Muslims. They all notified the
qadi that sheikh 'Abd al­Karim al­Samit, who was present at court, was
responsible for the riot among the believers last Friday. When he left for the
visitation to Nabi Musa, they said, he conspired with other scoundrels of his
sort to start afitna (commotion) upon their return on Friday. They described his
evil character and his tendency to instigate riots. Sheikh 'Abd al­Karim was then
asked: "Did you not declare that if a sultanic grant ('ulofa) will be paid to you in
full, you will not cause thisfitna , and you will cease to incite the people?" "So I
did" admitted the sheikh. And as [by his own admission] he proved the claims
made against him by the ulema, the ashraf, and other people present, the judge
decreed that he should be punished by ta'zir [whipping,
 Page 81

bastinado], and imprisoned in the citadel. So indeed was he punished and

imprisoned, as a deterrence to him and to all who tread the same path. 59

Sometime later Sheikh 'Abd al­Karim's accomplices were arrested and

punished. Among them were sobashi al­kilab (sobashi of the dogs) and
several artisans.60

The riot of 1652 was apparently caused by the local elite's reluctance to
include Sheikh 'Abd al­Karim al­Samit among those entitled to be granted an
'ulofa from Istanbul. 'Ulofas were usually quite small, and could not have
made such a difference economically. Their importance lay mainly in being a
status symbol of the elite, and one of the ways notables could define
themselves and draw the line separating them from the rest of the population, in
a society where precedent was of paramount importance.61

Another status symbol, one which carried more economic value, was tax
exemption. Repeated requests by ashraf villagers in the sanjaqs of Nabulus
and Jerusalem to stop paying taxes by right of their illustrious ancestry, illustrate
the difficulties encountered by the establishment when asked to give a group of
peasants, lacking any other traits of the elite, such a blatant symbol of elite
power. This strange combination—ashraf working asfallahin , presented an
almost insurmountable obstacle. Village­based ashraf families had to fight over
and over again for their rights to tax exemption by law, precedent and usage.
Although some of the reluctance on the part of the local government to grant
them their request stemmed from the evident loss of tax income, this sort of
consideration never seems to have deterred anyone from allowing tax­paying
city dwellers to join the ranks of the ashraf.62

Social mobility and attaining inclusion in the ranks of the notables was a slow
and painstaking process, as demonstrated by the 'Asalis. From the beginning of
the century this family advanced rapidly, economically as well as socially, but
its members were still considered candidates and yet to be approved. Only late
in the century, having studied and acquired ulema status and having bought
titles and married into the two elites, their status as full­fledged members was
finally given formal recognition in the form of various elite symbols of power
and affiliation.

The Foundations of Notable Wealth

It is widely accepted that local notable families in later centuries built their
wealth on iltizam, or concessions for tax levies. Auctioned by the government
for short terms at the beginning, iltizam rapidly became long­term concessions,
and ended up as malikanes—lifetime leases, and de facto private property.63
 Page 82

In the sanjaq of Jerusalem, however, iltizam was not the main source of
enrichment for notable families. As seen in the short family histories presented
above, their wealth and power originated in other economic activities. Its
cornerstone was in many cases waqf foundations for religious and study
purposes, dedicated by notables and ulema from the imperial center, by
governors and their households, and by local magnates. In addition to receiving
the waqf's yield as charity, ulema, ashraf and Sufis were also appointed
managers, supervisors or comptrollers of waqf foundations and hence given
influence and power in decision­making circles. Old Sufi families, such as the
Dajjanis and 'Alamis, were thus provided with a wide and varied economic
basis.

Other governmental sources of income were the imperial surra, and kharaj
(poll tax) payments from locally based minorities. Notables were often
allocated well­paying prestigious teaching posts in madrasas, and on rarer
occasions appointed qadis or bashkatibs (baskâtib, chief secretary in court.)
Tax exemption, granted to ulema and ashraf, allowed them to preserve most
of their income, including a substantial surplus, usually invested in other
transactions.

Another nonnegligible source of wealth was marriage agreements with aspiring

merchant families, which led to the infusion of substantial sums of money in
doweries, inheritance and joint economic ventures that benefited both sides.

And so, perhaps naturally, many of the notables in later generations found
investment in commerce a relatively safe way of preserving and expanding their
assets. They dealt in a variety of commodities, ranging from real estate to soap.
They rented village taxes from timar holders and from waqf endowments.
They bought land sold by villagers and houses in the city. They rented flour
mills, soap factories, workshops, stores, coffee houses, and public baths. They
sold the produce and imported goods from near and far. 64

Towards the end of the century many notable families were economically very
well off. They possessed lands and assets in the city and in many villages
around it. This economic power generated a considerable deal of political
influence both in the city and in surrounding villages. As centralization efforts
continued, vested interests of the notables were in danger. They reacted by
declaring a revolt at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and enlisted the
support of urban dwellers, villagers, and even tribesmen.65

Alienation and Revolt

Local notables in seventeenth­century Jerusalem owe their ascent to the

support of governors during the first half of the century. Ties between
 Page 83

the two groups were not confined to waqf donations and Sufi ceremonies.
Many governors saw the notables as important allies, to be promoted and
looked after. Al­Muhibbi's dictionary includes many biographies of governors
from old established families—Ridwan, Farrukh and Turabay. He stresses their
support for the ulema, and their clear commitment to local religious culture.
Governors, led by the senior family—the Ridwans— devoted a great deal of
attention to religious questions. They appointed muftis, granted scholarships,
sent promising youths off to Egypt to study, and provided support for the most
talented scholars when they came back. Mutual trust, enhanced by Sufi
affiliations, was challenged only on very rare occasions. In sum, the era of local
dynasties was the golden age for seventeenth­century notables. They had
established themselves economically, socially and, to some extent, politically.

But later on in the century, when these local dynasties were broken by the
imperial center and replaced by short­term governors, harmonious coexistence
gave way to harsh, and at times violent, confrontation. By this time the notables
were a powerful group, with considerable economic means at their disposal,
strong ties of patronage to village and city populations, and clear vested
interests in all realms of economy and politics. The new Istanbul appointed
governors were replaced after very short terms in office, and they lacked the
kind of intimate knowledge their predecessors had of the district and its
problems. Many of them treated the local notability as just another group to be
governed and exploited, and failed to understand their importance as a vital
link to the population.

As relations between the two groups deteriorated further, notables cooperated

with the rest of the population, sending petitions to Istanbul and pleading for
action against the new governors. The mühimme defters in Istanbul include a
growing number of petitions complaining about the brutal behavior of the
governors and janissaries, about the unbearable burden of taxes, and about
unpaid debts to merchants, artisans and suppliers. In all these petitions names
of ulema and ashraf open the list of petitioners. Needless to say, in the
centralizing atmosphere prevalent in Koprülü Istanbul, these petitions were
commonplace, and were probably shrugged off as the groans of an outdated
system being replaced by a new and vigorous one. 66

In the face of efforts to curb its power, a well­entrenched notability, sure of the
support of the population, refused to bow its head as it had in the past. When a
new governor, Muhammad Pasha "Kurd Bayram" harsher and more thorough
than his predecessors, arrived in 1701, things came to a head. The pasha
demanded more taxes, and cruelly punished those who refused to pay. He
apparently ignored the notables and their claims, and joined the qadi,
reportedly a vain and corrupt person, in extorting
 Page 84

their money. The last straw was the attempt by the governor's retinue to attack
and rob a village belonging to the mufti of Jerusalem (probably as waqf or
lease.) The anger of the ulema and the ashraf, pent up for two decades, finally
erupted in the violent revolt of Naqib al­Ashraf in 1703. 67

It was precisely this desperate move, however, that set back the development
of a strong and influential notability, and dealt a near fatal blow to the rising
group of notables. The revolt failed, the naqib and his accomplices escaped
from Jerusalem in October of 1705, and were later sentenced to death, and
the city was occupied again by Ottoman troops. Thousands of soldiers were
stationed within Jerusalem's walls, resulting in a rapid decline in the economy.
Some of the old ulema and ashraf families fell from grace, notably the
Husaynis, who led the rebels. In the course of the eighteenth century other
families emerged, and some of the old ones regained their status and found
their way into the Ottoman administration, having given up much of their former
independence in the process.68

There can be little doubt that the insurrection broke out because of
contemporary grievances that had to do with the new governor's cruelty and
high­handedness, and with the centralizing tendencies emanating from Istanbul.
But it cannot be understood out of context. The rise of a powerful and
relatively independent notable group in the seventeenth century was a crucial
part of that context.

In the second half of the seventeenth century, the notables became a cohesive
social group, resembling in many respects Weber's ''patriciate" as defined by
Hourani for the Ottoman Empire. Their control of land and commerce gave
them control over part of the city and the villages in its vicinity. Their
management of waqf foundations, along with the patronage of the governing
elite, added a significant measure of political power. As centralization increased
in the last two decades of the seventeenth century, the power of notables
began to decline. It was first felt as they were deliberately distanced from the
new centers of government, followed by disregard for their economic
privileges. Their achievements up to this point were threatened. At the same
time stronger ties were forged between the notables and the rest of the
population, bound by shared feelings of neglect and mistreatment. The reaya
assisted the notables in the revolt, which was a desperate attempt by the
notables to regain some of their former political power, and a violent protest
against the ongoing effort to rob them of the rest of their achievements.

Can the same conclusions be applied to the contemporary revolts in Istanbul,

Cairo and Damascus? There is still not enough material available on these
incidents, but it seems that all have a lot in common. In his evaluation of the last
years of the seventeenth century, Abdul Karim Rafeq found that as local
military forces (yerliyya ) faltered in Damascus, the ulema
 Page 85

became the peoples' sole defenders against autocratic rule. Between 1690 and
1696 several notables who dared protest against the governor's tyranny were
banished from Damascus, among them naqib al­ashraf. In Cairo, the same
role of popular leadership was assumed by the janissaries, who became a
deeply rooted local notability, and in Istanbul the revolt was carried out under
the aegis of the local aristocracy, which had its own axe to grind with the sultan
and his vezirs. 69

All these uprisings had something in common, which set them apart from other,
earlier revolts in the empire. Unlike their sixteenth­ and seventeenth­century
antecedents, the revolts at the beginning of the eighteenth century were not led
by autonomous governors who wanted to shake off Ottoman rule and achieve
some sort of independence, nor were they led by charismatic religious zealots.
Neither were they spontaneous peasant riots typical of the Celali period of
unrest in Anatolia. Instead, these revolts were instigated and led by influential
local notables—ashraf, ulema or localized military units. They should therefore
be seen not only as separate affairs in their local settings, not merely as
detached incidents emerging from local grievances, but also as different
manifestations of the same historical phenomenon. They were a phase in a
wider chain of events, tracing the beginning of the notable spiral: the rise of
local notable groups throughout the empire at the beginning of the century, and
their attempt to recapture some of the political power appropriated by the
centralizing state in the latter part of that century.
 Page 87

Chapter 4
Desert, Village and Town
A Unified Social Structure
In the first decades of Ottoman rule, the heyday of the empire's power in
Arabic­speaking lands, signs of weakness began to show in the old guard of
elite soldiers. Janissaries and sipahis, not so long ago the terror of armies
across Europe and Asia, became cumbersome fighting units, unwilling to adapt
to changing circumstances. Their ranks swelled with people who bought titles
and commissions with very little training or fighting experience. They threatened
the sultan and his government with ever­growing demands for wages, yet
repeatedly failed in the battlefield. Their weakness created a military and
political void in the center and the provinces, which was rapidly filled up by
other coalitions of power. 1 These subsequent structures of military power,
their meaning for society and culture, and the form they assumed in the district
of Jerusalem, will be dealt with in this chapter.

A Changing of the Guard

Still considered an elite fighting unit at the beginning of the seventeenth century,
the janissaries are frequently mentioned in the records of shari'a courts. In
most cases, however, this mention has nothing to do with their military duties or
with problems arising from these duties. Throughout the century janissaries
were seldom used in combat missions in the province. The collective image that
emerges from the sources is one of a social group with very few military
obligations, yet formally considered
 Page 88

part of the governing elite, well entrenched in the social and commercial life of
the district, and enjoying a wide range of economic privileges.

Many of the janissaries mentioned in the records bear Muslim names, and quite
a few possess a second or third generation of such names, clearly not of the
limited set given to non­Muslims who embraced Islam. Sometimes their fathers
were also mentioned as janissaries or local notables. It is evident that they
were not a product of the sultanic system of acquisition and training, nor were
they brought up in the parallel system based on the purchase of slaves, which
was sponsored by the ümera in their local courts. Military training was
apparently not a prerequisite for joining the ranks. 2

A record from the year 1636 (1045), one of many dealing with janissaries in
the sijills of Nabulus and Jerusalem, illustrates clearly the status of some
janissaries in Jerusalem in the first half of the century:
On 9 Dhu al­Qa'da 1045, the sayyid Salih and his brother, Sayyid Muhammad,
sons of the artisan (mu'allim) Mahmud ibn Ilyas, arrived in court. These two
gentlemen of the janissaries in the citadel of Jerusalem (min al­sada al­
yinkishariyya bi­qal'at al­quds) brought their complaint before the qadi. Up to
this day, they said, they or their forefathers were never asked to pay special
impositions (al­takalif al­'urfiyya) 3 for producing wooden latticework
(sha'ara), but now the governor's representatives harass them and demand that
they pay these impositions.

Upon hearing their complaint, the qadi decided to examine the matter in depth,
and consulted with several Muslim notables who were well acquainted with the
two brothers and their circumstances. These notables supported the brothers'
claim, and affirmed that government taxes were never imposed on them or on
their father. They were exempted on two counts, the notables added: their
commissions in the janissary corps, and their poverty (wa­likawnihima bayna
yinkishariyyat qal'at al­Quds al­sharif wa­lifaqrihima). Following the inquiry
the judge ruled in favor of the brothers, and instructed all those persecuting
them to stop demanding special impositions, either for production of latticework
or for any other reason. The verdict was duly inscribed in the sijill.

This portrayal of the janissaries is remote from the image of the institution in its
classical period, when janissary units were a symbol of imperial power,
recruited and trained in the center. It is also a far cry from the ümera­mamluk
form of socialization into the governing elite. The two janissary brothers are
referred to as sayyids, a title usually reserved for descendants of the prophet,
but in this period sometimes used as a
 Page 89

general honorific. Their father was a known member of the urban community, a
mu'allim (an accomplished artisan or artist), and a janissary himself. The two
sons, registered as janissaries in the citadel, remained in the old family business
of latticework.

Records like this also bear witness to the many tax exemption privileges
enjoyed by the janissaries, which made the commission so lucrative. These
privileges were not always based on law. In special cases, when the janissaries
themselves were manual laborers and were not engaged in trade or financial
brokerage, other conditions, like proof of economic necessity, were necessary
for tax exemption. Most janissaries did not have a regular fixed income, and
being one did not determine economic status. If estates and property registered
in cases involving inheritance disputes are any indication, however, poverty
was not a widespread problem among janissaries and they were usually well
off . Many among them possessed lands and large households. 4

Some janissaries may have served as bodyguards for governors, members of

their entourage, tax collectors, policemen, and even as garrison soldiers in
fortresses along main routes. It seems very unlikely, though, that such soldiers
could be mobilized and sent off to wars or punitive expeditions. Fighting
against well­equipped European armies, or against battle­hardened bedouin
tribes in harsh desert conditions, was not the sort of task to be entrusted to
artisans and merchants. They could not be depended upon as fighting forces in
the battlefield.

Sipahis, the other elite fighting force, were in a similar predicament, though the
institution still retained much of its past prestige. Cavalry officers commanded
respect, and some still turned up in the provinces now and then, presenting
sultanic decrees awarding them timars. But by and large the imperial source
for professional sipahis seemed to dwindle, and in the second half of the
seventeenth century it was no more than a trickle.5 Instead, fiefs were
sometimes allocated to the sons of Ottoman vezirs and other notables in the
center. Thus, in 1595, the holder of the large fief (zeamet) in the village of
Dammun on Mount Carmel was the son of the Ottoman vezir Khalil Pasha. In
1657 the son of Anatolia's chief military qadi (kazasker) held the zeamet of
Bayt Sahur near Jerusalem.6 Slaves brought up as mamluks in the houses of
provincial ümera were another source of manpower for the sipahi corps.
Upon manumission many of them received a timar and a commission in the
force. In Damascus, the provincial governor was authorized to allocate small
fiefs to sipahis, thus strengthening ties of loyalty and clientage with ümera in
the province. Larger estates were obtained from Istanbul.7 Many, perhaps the
majority of sipahis in the districts of Jerusalem and Nabulus, were sons or
grandsons of local timariots. When called upon to give testimony or answer
 Page 90

in court, their lineage presented to the qadi often included the father's name and
rank in the sipahi corps. frequently the sipahi's family—his sisters, brothers,
children or uncles—would also be mentioned.

One incident, in which a sipahi was murdered by villagers in the vicinity of

Jerusalem, may serve to illustrate the state of the institution:
On the morning of 5 Jumada al­Akhira 1079 (10 November 1668) a group of
sipahis arrived in court. Among them were Sheikh Abu Bakr ibn Khalil and Hajj
Muhammad ibn 'Iwad. They notified the qadi that Sayyid Khalil ibn Sheikh
Yusuf the sipahi was found dead in the village of Khirbat al­Lawz, which is part
of his timar. They claimed that unknown persons from the village killed him and
dumped his body in a water cistern.

A team of investigation was sent to the village. The body of the dead sipahi
was found, bearing marks of violence. The two sipahis who reported the murder
turned out to be the victim's uncle, Abu Bakr, and his maternal brother, Hajj
Muhammad Bey ibn 'Iwad al­Ma'arri. They told the team investigating the case
that the victim, Sayyid Khalil, spent the night at the house of a certain family in
the village. The murderers captured him there, tied him up and killed him. His
personal effects, including his money and his sword, were all stolen. 8

The affair went on for a while, until the assassins were seized and executed.
Meanwhile another case was brought to court: a controversy about the
possessions of the victim, and his legal heirs. Among those claiming the right to
inherit were his mother, 'Aisha khatun bint Sheikh 'Ali al­'Azma, his sister,
Khadija khatun bint Yusuf, his maternal brother, Hajj Muhammad Bey ibn
'Iwad, and his paternal uncle Bakri (formerly mentioned as Abu Bakr) ibn
Khalil. In due course the relatives agreed on the way to divide the property
and possessions.

Another dispute concerned the now vacant timar. Hajj Muhammad Bey
received his brother's vacated timar by imperial decree, but here an
unforeseen problem arose. The same timar was also allotted to another
sipahi, 'Abd al­Karim Aga ibn Mustafa, by the provincial governor in
Damascus, who apparently assumed that reallocating the timar was within his
powers. Another prolonged legal debate seemed to be in store for the family,
but to everyone's relief and to the reader's surprise, a compromise was
reached out of court. 'Abd al­Karim Aga and Hajj Muhammad Bey, the two
contestants over the small timar, decided that the fief should be divided
between them. Each one will receive an equal share, paying 1,100 ghurosh of
tribute a year. The unusual arrangement received the qadi's blessing.
 Page 91

This affair tells us a great deal about sipahis and timar holders in the period.
Sayyid Khalil, the victim, was neither a product of the devsirme system or a
parallel imperial institution. Nor was he the mamlok of a local amir. His family
hardly fits the classical sipahi mould. As in the case of the janissaries, it is
difficult to determine whether the victim's title "sayyid" implied descent from an
ashraf family. This was not a common title for sipahis in earlier times. The
father's title of sheikh was also rare among sipahis, certainly in the first
generation. Several other family members, like the paternal uncle, Abu Bakr,
were also referred to as sipahis. The father married 'Aisha, a local woman
who had a son from a previous (or later) marriage. This son was also a sipahi,
even though his father's name and his nisba suggest that he was also of local
descent. At least four members of the family, then, carried the title of sipahi in
the same district. They inherited from each other, and transferred their timars
to other family members, with what amounted to an almost automatic approval
of the authorities. Other records imply that this approval was obtained in many
cases by sending gifts to certain officials in Istanbul.

The affair ended with another highly unconventional arrangement. The timar in
question was divided into two mini­timars, yielding a very small income. This
arrangement, perhaps more than any other part of the story, bears witness to
the fact that timars and sipahi duties were by that time meaningless from a
military point of view. The former sanctity of this institution, upon which an
entire Ottoman standing army was based, had become a lucrative source of
income, to be rearranged and divided almost arbitrarily. 10

Transfer of timars to next of kin is relatively frequent in the sijills and in

Ottoman sources. In several cases minor sons of sipahis received their father's
timar, while still under the supervision of a legal guardian. In such cases
fatawa and legal opinions enjoin that the minor sipahis should arm and train
replacements to take their place on the battlefield. This appears, however, to
have been an old legal mechanism which served as a fig­leaf to cover what was
in fact an attempt to privatize and bequeath land. In other cases sipahis leased
their timars to the highest bidder, and evaded the added task of maintaining
law and order in the villages assigned to them.11

In the districts of Palestine timar­holders were frequently exempted from duty

in imperial campaigns. Instead, they were required to perform several security
tasks in the area. Pilgrims on their way to visit holy shrines in Jerusalem,
Hebron and Nabi Musa were entitled to be accompanied by sipahis to protect
them. Evliya Çelebi, who visited Jerusalem in the 1670s recounts that the
sipahis in Jerusalem are not required to participate in imperial campaigns, and
that their sole duty is to accompany the
 Page 92

pilgrims and travelers. But as records in the sijill and the Ottoman archives
suggest, this was not always the case. From time to time orders were sent to
sipahis requiring them to join the Ottoman army on its way to war. They
would usually decline, claiming that they were needed back home. More often
they were asked to pay a sort of ransom (bedel, badal in Arabic) in lieu of
participation, which they would grudgingly do. 12 In short, sipahis maintained
their titles, their privileges and the pomp of dress and sword brandishing, but
lacked experience in war.13

Sultans, vezirs and provincial governors soon realized they could no longer rely
on the janissaries and sipahis. Instead they began to train and give precedence
to other forces, known as sekban, sarica or levend, (sakban, sarija or
lawand in Arabic), based mainly on armed villagers. At first they were
recruited on an ad hoc basis for one campaign and then dismissed, but later on
they developed into regular army units. Sekban (sometimes called sakmaniyya
in Arabic,) were part of the governor's retinue in Jerusalem. Other units,
known as the yerliyya (local) forces were modelled after the janissaries and
competed with them in the provinces.

In the southern and Western regions of the province of Damascus, the most
important military force at the time was undoubtedly the bedouin. In one
capacity or another bedouin seem to have participated in almost every skirmish
and battle. Their role in the service of Ottoman governors is often played down
or ignored altogether.14 If we are to understand the importance of the bedouin
in politics and society, we must now turn to a discussion of the reasons for this
neglect.

Desert and Sown—The Paradigm

The enmity between the desert and the sown has been described countless
times in literary epics: nomads lead their lives in harsh desert climes, where
food and water are scarce and where the heat (or cold, at nights and in
winters) is oppressive. On the other side, where water is abundant and the
earth fertile, they encounter villagers or townsmen, who guard their possessions
jealously and try to push the nomads back into the desert. The envious nomads
stare hungrily at the riches of the land, and when an opportunity presents itself,
pounce on the sedentary settlements, pillaging and looting.

A wider conceptual framework for the same idea was offered by the famous
fourteenth­century Maghribi historian Ibn Khaldun. Living on the northern rim
of the North­African Sahara desert, Ibn Khaldun held clear views on the
subject. The war between the desert and the sown, he said, was the center of
human history. Both nomads and sedentary societies are "natural" societies.
Their way of life is dictated by economic
 Page 93

necessity. Pasture, the basis of nomad economy, requires enormous tracts of

land, thus forcing the nomads to migrate often and lead a spartan life. In time
economic conditions improve for some of them, and they are no longer
satisfied with their way of life. Finally they settle down, building their own
villages and towns. Nomads are therefore the source of all civilization, but as
they acquire the habits of civilization they soften and become spoiled, losing
their team spirit, the 'asabiyya which enabled them to survive in the desert.
Other nomads do not follow this pattern, however. Although their ability to
adapt to desert life is impressive, they seek to improve their lot by attacking
sedentary civilizations. Such onslaughts, repeated in an eternal vicious circle,
result in the total destruction of civilization. 15

Thus, in Ibn Khaldun's masterpiece, and in many other works, a line of

demarcation is drawn between the desert and the cultivated areas. An almost
tangible border, sometimes moving into the desert, as "civilization" infringes on
nomad realms, at other times biting into the perimeter of towns and villages.
This reasoning has influenced many modern works on the Middle East, which
tend to ignore relationships between nomads and sedentary populations that do
not correspond to this mould. When facts crop up to challenge this view, they
are often ignored, or explained away as exceptions to the rule. The
misconception about the ways nomad and sedentary populations coexist and
cooperate leads to distorted views of society and politics in many historical
contexts.

Complex relations existed between sedentary and pastoral cultures in Palestine

throughout its history. The coastal plain and the mountain ranges in this area
form a narrow strip of fertile, arable land, surrounded by deserts: Sinai, the
Negev, the Judean desert and the Syrian desert. In times of draught the desert
invades areas habitually cultivated, while a long stretch of rainy seasons may
widen the settled zone considerably. In many respects the whole area is a
desert periphery from ancient history to modern times.

Descriptions of the enmity between bedouin and sedentary populations in this

area abound especially in Ottomanist research. One of the most
comprehensive research works on the early years of Ottoman rule is Uriel
Heyd's Ottoman Documents on Palestine, based on a collection of sultanic
decrees from the famous Mühimme Defterleri collection in the Ottoman
archives in Istanbul.16 These decrees often discuss bedouin insurrection and
insubordination. They appear to have been a constant menace which the
government saw as one of its main concerns in the region. From time to time
wars erupted between forces stationed in the area and the bedouin.17 There
are frequent reports of bedouin tribes equipped with state­of­the­art firearms,
revolting against Ottoman rule. Decrees often
 Page 94

encourage governors to fight these rebels, or to impose economic sanctions

upon them in the hope of making them submit to authority. 18 Other methods
included the taking of hostages, and sometimes even the forced deportation of
clans or whole tribes.19 The Ottoman government, says Heyd, saw the
bedouin as a threat and a nuisance, and often inflicted cruel punishment upon
them. Here there were no misgivings or remorse of the kind that sometimes
accompanied punitive expeditions against troublesome villagers. The war was
prolonged and bitter. Being accustomed to desert conditions, sometimes better
equipped, and enjoying access to intelligence information about expected raids,
the enemy often had an edge over government forces.20

In his study on the bedouin in Palestine in the sixteenth and seventeenth

centuries, Moshe Sharon endorses Heyd's conclusions. Basing his argument on
Arabic chronicles and descriptions provided by European travelers, Sharon
adds a flavor of terror: raids on trade caravans and pilgrims, and highwaymen
demanding ransom. Here too inhabitants of the desert and the sown are
presented as enemies locked in mortal combat. Ottoman governments saw
their main duty in the region as protecting the sedentary population from
bedouin invasion, and safeguarding the passage of pilgrims to the holy cities of
Mecca and Medina. Just like their predecessors, the Mamluks, they failed in
this task. the reasons for their failure, maintains Sharon, were their military
weakness, a dwindling civilian population too insecure to defend itself, and the
growing power of their foes, the bedouin.21

The Ottomans tried to cope with the problem, Sharon says, by moving
villagers to sparsely populated regions. Some were promised tax deductions in
return for resettlement in border areas, others were deported by decree
(sürgün). These measures, however, were never carried out properly, and the
villagers seldom settled in their designated areas. Another method often used
was an attempt to buy off bedouin sheikhs and notables by paying them sums
of money, and at times by trying to integrate them into the Ottoman governing
system. But the central government was weak, and could not impose its will
upon potential bedouin allies.

In several cases tribes and clans were integrated into the Ottoman system. One
prominent example is the integration of the Turabay family, a clan of the Bani
Haritha tribe, which claimed descent from the famous Tayyi' tribe of the
Arabian desert.22 Such attempts were only partly successful. For a long time
Turabay relations with the Ottomans fluctuated between cooperation and
rebellion. In 1677, when their tribe, the Bani Haritha, moved eastward to the
area of 'Ajlun and the Jordan valley, they were deposed as governors of
Lajjun, and an Ottoman officer was appointed
 Page 95

in their place. In the end, he concludes, the Turabays were just another
example of the Ottoman provincial administration caving in to bedouin
pressure. 23

A study by 'Adil Manna' supports the conclusions arrived at by Heyd and

Sharon. In an essay on the Farrukh governors of Jerusalem and their relations
with the bedouin, Manna' describes the weakness of the central government
and its inability to restrain rebellious bedouin: ''The relative improvement
brought about by the Ottoman government's curtailment of bedouin activity in
the first half of the sixteenth century, petered out towards its end. The situation
once more resembled the state of affairs which characterized the last years of
Mamluk rule in the region."24 The only ones who were able to check the
disastrous bedouin raids were the Farrukh governors, and they did so only by
eventually joining forces with them to raid and plunder villages entrusted to
their care.25

Manna' has used another source, one that was seldom used before. His was
the first research concerning bedouin to have used the sijill. The records he
uses include firmans from Istanbul, letters from the provincial governor in
Damascus, and descriptions of events in and around Jerusalem. These records
elucidate the volatile relationship between the Farrukhs, the bedouin and the
fallahin in the district. A relationship which could best be described as a
combination of treachery and cruelty, where yesterday's allies are today's
victims. Ties between the bedouin and the governors were always at the
expense of the settled population. The local provincial elite, claims
Manna' (referring mainly to the governor Muhammad ibn Farrukh), betrayed
their duty of protecting the populace, and allied themselves instead with the
ruthless nomads.26

The works of Heyd, Sharon and Manna' enhance and reproduce well known
stereotypes of the bedouin. Nowadays many scholars tend to accept this view
and to incorporate it in their studies as a well­documented historical fact. Thus,
Haim Gerber, in his book on the social origins of the modern Middle East, can
write that "The problem of nomads in Syria and Palestine under Ottoman rule
is well known and needs little elaboration. The vacuum left by the weakening of
the government after the sixteenth century (if not before) was a function of the
fact that the great bulk of the coastal plain was a roaming ground for bedouin
tribes, and was almost totally devoid of permanent villages."27 In such basic
textbooks the facts have already become assumptions that "need little
elaboration," and upon which other theories can safely be constructed.

This insistence on the basic stereotype continues even when there are clear
contradictions in the sources. These are already evident in Heyd's work. A
decree dated 1552 quoted by Heyd claims that the crux of the problem is the
close­knit commercial relationship, centered mainly on
 Page 96

sheep and wool, between the inhabitants of Jerusalem and the bedouin, as well
as the friendly ties between bedouin and timar holders, who tip them off about
expected punitive raids against them. The firman instructs the Beylerbey in
Damascus to punish the rebellious bedouins, to arrest the treacherous timariots,
seize their households and families, and send them over to Istanbul. 28

Another decree of the same year imposes economic sanctions on bedouin

tribes, but in discussing the state of affairs prior to the rebellion, the decree
conveys a sense of very active commercial ties with the nomads. In the past, it
says, such sanctions were the only way to force the bedouin to reach a
settlement with the Ottoman authorities. Another firman, dated 1584, describes
the hazardous road in the area of Ramle in the district of Gaza, where bedouin
highway robbers attack innocent travelers. The solution it suggests, however, is
the appointment of a bedouin sheikh who holds a timar in the vicinity to keep
an eye on the road.29

Such contradictions are also visible in Sharon's essay. The appointment of

bedouin notables like the Turabays to the high­ranking post of district governor
is outstanding in itself. It cannot be seen merely as the result of bedouin
pressure brought to bear on the Ottoman government. After all, over a century
of Turabay rule, usually loyal to the government in Istanbul, must have been
built on a stronger foundation. But there are other indications as well. Sharon
writes of the cooperation between villagers and bedouin against other such
groups; payment of fixed salaries (surra) to bedouin sheikhs on the hajj route;
and even of an incident where seven thousand soldiers were required to
protect a munitions caravan to Jarash and 'Ajlun, but an agreement with the
bedouin made it possible to send the caravan through with no military escort
whatsoever.30

Manna' casts his bedouin in a double role. At the beginning of the century,
when Farrukh Bey was governor of Jerusalem, they threatened the peaceful
existence of the district, and organized daring raids against him. But when his
son, Muhammad, became governor in the 1620s, they suddenly turned out to
be his closest allies. The bedouin's actions are described as disruptive both
when they fight against the provincial government, and when they join forces
with it to exploit the reaya.

One of the reasons for the persistence of the "desert and sown" paradigm,
even when so many contradictions crop up, is the kind of sources used to lay
the foundations of modern research on Ottoman Palestine. The centrality of
Mühimme Defterleri decrees in Heyd's book is misleading. These are very
reliable sources for Ottoman high politics, and reflect to a large extent what
bureaucrats in the center thought about affairs in the province. But this is also
their greatest single weakness. In
 Page 97

the seventeenth century, Istanbul was a distant capital. Local politics in a

faraway district seemed petty and meaningless. Communications were at best
haphazard. Istanbul bureaucrats lacked insight into the affairs of the district,
and in most cases described the situation in vague phrases, seldom seeing more
than the one­sided picture presented to them in a letter or a petition. Another
distortion is created when all the firmans concerning a small region over a
period of seventy years are collected under subject headings. Each of the
subjects dealt with in the book was brought to the attention of Istanbul
mandarins once or twice a decade at best. Grouping them together creates an
artificial sense of importance and urgency.

From Istanbul's vantage point the bedouin were indeed a problem. They
threatened trade routes, raided hajj caravans and too often acted
independently, clearly defying Ottoman sovereignty. The sultan and his vezirs
were bothered by the growing challenge to their authority, but did not care
about other aspects of the relationship with the bedouin. To obtain a better
understanding of the situation in the district, one should attempt to read
between the lines, and to amplify dim reflections of this distant reality.

The two sources used by Sharon—chronicles and travelers' accounts—

present a different bias. Travelers, many of them pilgrims, are sometimes
accused of falsifying reports, or copying from predecessors in order to
embellish their narrative. In the matter of bedouin, however, another problem
looms even larger. Their understanding of local society and culture was at best
superficial. In most cases they did not know whether the menacing individual
facing them and demanding money was a bedouin thug, a villager, or even a
soldier fulfilling his duty. Local chroniclers knew much more, of course, about
the local scene, and in most cases present a balanced, well­informed view of
affairs. Indeed, most of the contradicting information in Sharon's article was
derived from such sources. But the writers of historical chronicles saw their
duty as recording great deeds for future generations. While extraordinary
bedouin raids and punitive expeditions against them automatically fell into this
category, the slow rhythm of everyday life was not deemed worthy of special
record in a chronicle.

Sijills, the main source added by Manna', shed a new light on the matter.
Being a quasi­official record of events, trials, business transactions, and
government affairs, they reflect another sort of relationship. The governor's
special relationship with the bedouin, as it emerges from these records, forms
the basis of Manna''s argument. Yet the paradigm is so powerful that it
embraces even these exceptions. Ibn Farrukh's alliance with the bedouin is
described as an aberration, a deviation from the
 Page 98

expected code of conduct. A reexamination of these and other records reveals

another side of the picture, and suggests a new way of looking at the role of
the bedouin in the politics, culture and economy of the district. Rather than a
dichotomy between the desert and the sown, we can now propose a more
complex representation, in which bedouin were as much a part of society in the
districts of Palestine as villagers or town­dwellers.

Bedouin Defending the Realm

Bedouin participated as soldiers and commanders in the armed forces of all

local governors in the seventeenth century. This was the rule rather than the
exception. They were incorporated into the military establishment in various
ways. Sometimes they were soldiers in army units or in governors' entourages.
In other cases a contract was signed between local officials and a certain tribe
to employ all, or part of its members, as an allied defense force. Some of these
contracts were fairly stable and long­term, while others were signed only when
special needs arose. In yet another variety, bedouin clans were entrusted with
the defense of a road or a strategic point in their own vicinity.

The beginnings of this system can be traced back to the early days of Ottoman
rule, when the territory known as Lajjun (later to become a formal sanjaq)
was entrusted to the Turabay family. As Heyd shows in his book, this was not
an unprecedented or isolated incident in the region. In the year 1584, for
instance, the fief given to the bedouin sheikh Abu al­'Uways, was enlarged
from a timar yielding 17,000 akçe, to a zeamet of 20,000 akçe, in return for
which he was to guard the stretch of coastal road leading northward to Ra's al­
'Ayn (Rosh Ha­'Ayin). In a later firman, dated 1585, the district governor was
ordered to entrust the defense of another stretch of road, this time to the north
of Ra's al­'Ayn, to a clan of the Bani Jayyus tribe. Other districts in the
province of Damascus were assigned to bedouin sheikhs, like the Ibn
Furaykhs, who controlled the northern regions of Trans­Jordan for several
decades. The Ottomans were quite content to entrust defense tasks, timars,
and even whole districts, to bedouin sheikhs. 31

This system was improved and articulated during the seventeenth century. In
1693 a certain amir al­hajj, 'Assaf Pasha (not to be confused with 'Assaf
Pasha ibn Farrukh), presented a petition to the sultan. Ever since the offices of
sheikh (seyhlik) of Gaza and Damascus were taken away from Sheikh Kulayb
and sheikh Walid and given to others, he claimed, troubles never ceased. The
new people were incapable of defending the road properly, and as a result the
pilgrims and travelers were constantly
 Page 99

harassed. He pleaded with the government in Istanbul to restore the two

sheikhs to their old appointments. A decree addressed to the vezir Mustafa
Pasha, the governor of the province, instructed him to look into the matter. If,
as 'Assaf Pasha said, the two sheikhs were more adept in keeping the
bedouins at bay, under discipline and control, and if they were capable of
protecting the hajj pilgrims better than others, they should be reap­pointed to
their former positions. If, however, the ümera are expected to do a better job,
then they should be the ones to be appointed. Mustafa Pasha was ordered to
report back his conclusions and the course of action he had chosen. 32

As this firman demonstrates, in the course of the seventeenth century the

provincial government had already created formal titles, and probably formal
salaries for sheikhs appointed to guard the hajj route. The Ottoman attitude,
as emerges from this and other documents, was entirely pragmatic. The only
criterion to be taken into consideration is the ability to perform the task.
Another method of securing the cooperation and loyalty of bedouin sheikhs
was payment of money from the surra. Such yearly tributes, begun in the
sixteenth century, became part of the administration's budgeted expenses a
century later. When, in 1689, the payment was late, several bedouin tribes
attacked the hajj caravan. An imperial decree sent to the governor of
Damascus instructs him to pay the money promptly, and in future to avoid
reneging on such agreements.33

Bedouin were not employed exclusively as stationary defense forces in a

delimited area. They were frequently used as mercenary forces in the
governor's personal guard or in his provincial cavalry. They were used to
collect taxes and levies from the villages, and to protect caravans and officials
against assault. A record in the Jerusalem sijill demonstrates the role of
bedouin troops in such circumstances:
In the month of Shawwal 1024 (1615) a representative of the provincial governor
of Damascus, named Husayn aga, arrived in court. He brought with him a white
leather pouch containing 1,000 ghurosh and bearing the seal of the vali,
Muhammad Pasha. The money was intended for the district governor of
Jerusalem, and was accompanied by a letter which Husayn Aga read aloud in
court: "We have sent you a thousand ghurosh for the purchase of cement,
mortar and other building materials," wrote the vali. "You are to take these
materials and set out to repair the castles of Dhat Hajj, Qal'at Haydar and Qal'at
Tabuk on the hajj route."

The governor of Jerusalem, Muhammad Bey, was summoned and asked to take
possession of the leather pouch and the letter, but refused to execute the
orders. He claimed that a short time prior to
 Page 100

this date he received two imperial decrees instructing him to repair the city
walls, and it would be impossible for him to embark on another task of this
magnitude.

To support his claim the governor invited many of the city's notables. Among
them were the Shafi'i mufti Sheikh Ishaq, naqib al­ashraf Sayyid 'Abd al­Qadir
al­Wafa'i al­Husayni, the imam of the Sakhra (the Dome of the Rock) Sheikh 'Ali
Nur al­Din and his colleague the imam Sheikh Abu al­Fath, as well as a group of
zu'ama' (holders of zeamets) sipahis and mustahfizan (local garrison forces)
stationed in Jerusalem. In response to the governor's question they all
answered that such a request was never made before. The inhabitants of
Jerusalem, they claimed, were exempt from special impositions ever since the
Ottoman conquest, and were living in conditions of extreme poverty. There were
no camels strong enough to carry the building materials over such a long,
sparsely populated distance, and anyway, all the camels in the district were
weak and ailing as a result of the long draught years.

Furthermore, they declared, even had we been able to organize such a caravan
and send the materials, we would have failed in our mission, because the
bedouin ('urban) of the district of Jerusalem cannot go into these regions. For
there is enmity between them and the bedouin who reside there. (Wa­'inna
'urban liwa' al­Quds al­sharif la yastati'un al­dukhul ila tilka al­aradi lima
baynahum wa­bayna 'urbaniha min al­'adawa.)

In light of these arguments the district governor, Muhammad Bey, refused to

accept the sealed money pouch, and the messenger, Husayn aga, refused to
return it to Damascus. It was therefore decided to deposit it in the city's citadel,
until the vali in Damascus decided what was to be done. The commander of the
citadel (dizdar) Muhammad aga "Bosna" was then brought to court, and the
pouch was entrusted to his safekeeping. 34

This record provides a glimpse of the extent to which the governors of

Jerusalem relied on their contacts with the bedouin, and the importance of the
latters' services. It can be safely assumed that the district governor and the
notables made up a series of excuses to explain why they could not execute the
order: the governor was instructed by a higher authority to repair the city walls;
the inhabitants were always exempt from such impositions (clearly the sum was
not sufficient to pay for the whole project); the camels were too feeble after
years of draught… Still, these had to be reasonable excuses, of the kind that
might convince the governor in Damascus and his emissary in Jerusalem to
look for another scapegoat.
 Page 101

The provincial governor probably knew the extent of the draught and the state
of the camels, just as he was well aware of the use of bedouin as soldiers and
camel drivers, and of their internal disputes. It appears, therefore, that the claim
that such a trip would be impossible because of the animosity between "our"
bedouin and the inhabitants of these regions was a plausible and convincing
reason. The fact that it was brought up in the presence of cavalry and infantry
officers only emphasizes their incompetence in such situations. The tensions,
feuds and alliances between bedouin tribes have thus become an integral part
of the province's politics.

The reliance on bedouin armies is made plain in the series of battles against
Fakhr al­Din in the early 1620s. The Lebanese chronicler Ahmad al­Khalidi
describes a battle between the forces of Fakhr al­Din on the one hand, and the
joint forces of the Turabays, Farrukhs and Ridwans on the other, waged on the
banks of the 'Awja (Yarkon) river. Defeated in the first round, Fakhr al­Din's
forces were now retreating northward along the sea shore. At some point they
were attacked at dawn by some 2,000 men. The horsemen of Turabay
(bedouins themselves) and Farrukh were joined by their bedouin allies of 'Arab
al­'A'id, 'Arab Ghazza (a general reference to several tribes in the vicinity of
Gaza) and others. All along that day bedouin forces dogged the amir's army,
and he suffered many casualties and was forced to flee. 35

The use of bedouin forces was not limited to the first half of the century, or to
the rule of the dynasties. They appear in several other events along the century.
In 1689, for instance, they accompanied the governor on a mission to the port
town of Jaffa. This is how the incident was described by a member of the small
community of French traders who resided in Ramle and conducted trade
through the port of Jaffa:
On Tuesday three pirate ships entered Jaffa harbor. Upon arrival they fired
some 200 shells at the harbor and the warehouses. The terrified inhabitants
pleaded with the governor to come to their rescue, and he arrived with about
2,000 bedouin, accompanied by some inhabitants of Ramle. When the force
was deployed at the top of a hill, the pirates fired once again and killed four
soldiers. The governor's troops returned fire but were unable to force the pirates
to retreat. At that stage the pasha decided to summon the French merchants
and the priests in Ramle, and to send them as a delegation to the pirates,
demanding that they cease fire. Meanwhile the pirates decided to retreat, and
when the French delegation arrived they were already some ten miles offshore.
When the incident was over, the enraged
 Page 102

inhabitants of Jaffa wanted to take revenge upon the merchants, but the
governor and his troops defended them. 36

Unlike other Western travelers and pilgrims, weathered French traders who
had been doing business for years with local authorities knew how to tell a
bedouin from an Ottoman soldier. They did not express surprise or
astonishment at the sight of such a large bedouin contingent escorting the
governor, and regarded it as the natural course of affairs. Thus, throughout the
seventeenth century bedouin operated as a military force in the service of
district governors in Jerusalem and in neighboring districts. They were
employed both as stationary forces charged with guarding roads and borders,
and as a highly mobile and efficient cavalry, equipped with firearms, fighting
battles and escorting caravans. In the course of the century they may have
acquired an official, or semi­official standing in the Ottoman administration.

An Integrated Economy

The economy of the district in the early Ottoman period was based mainly on
agriculture, and on the manufacture of several industrial products. Cash crops
in one form or another constituted a major part of the agriculture. Most of the
produce was intended for internal consumption, although a slowly growing
share was exported to Europe by French, Venetian, Dutch and English
merchants.37 Communities of European traders were established in the
coastal towns. More ships frequented the harbors of Acre and Jaffa, especially
in the second half of the century. Side by side with the cash­crop economy,
many villagers carried on subsistence­level agriculture, sometimes based on
barter. Imports were mostly luxury items: coffee, tobacco, spices, paper,
special cloth, firearms and foreign currency.38

Local produce included mainly wheat and barley; cotton in a variety of

forms—unprocessed, carded, combed, spun, and woven in several ways; olive
trees which provided a range of products from olives and olive oil to soap and
finished olive wood craftwork; cattle and sheep raised for milk, meat, hides
and wool; the many fruit trees cultivated in the mountainous regions of Safad,
Nabulus and Jerusalem.

The role of bedouin in the local economy is known mainly in its consumer
aspects. Bedouin needed the markets of towns and villages in order to buy
agricultural products, firearms, leatherware, ironware and clothes. Many
imperial decrees deal with the attempt to break the spirit of rebellious tribes by
imposing sanctions. The 1552 decree presented by Heyd describes the
success of such sanctions in breaking a revolt of the Turabay and the Thawba
clans. The villagers were warned not to sell
 Page 103

arrows, bows, horseshoes, nails, food or clothing to members of these tribes.

Their compliance with the decree forced the rebels to cease their revolt and
seek accommodation with the authorities. In many other cases, however, the
sanctions were not so successful, and trade with the bedouin went on. In his
book on the Jewish community in Jerusalem, Amnon Cohen recounts that
Jewish merchants of the city used to trade with the bedouin. In several cases in
the sixteenth century such merchants were caught and put on trial, but, as
Cohen adds, the incidents we know about may be seen as indications of
spheres of commerce and economic relations too widespread for the
authorities to control effectively. 39

In the course of the century such issues continue to preoccupy the Ottoman
central government from time to time. In a decree sent to Damascus in 1692
the governor is warned against the sale of weapons, lead (for bullets) and
clothes to bedouin in a state of rebellion (isyan üzere olan urban­i eskiya.) It
was also forbidden to buy things plundered by tribesmen from pilgrims on their
way to Mecca. In 1706 a decree sent to the governor of Jerusalem, Ibrahim
Pasha, informing him that villagers on the road from Jerusalem to Nabi Musa
and to Wadi Zarqa' are selling arms and ammunition to rebellious bedouins
(itaatten huruc eden eskiya.) The governor was instructed to fight against
them and prevent the continued supply of arms. These decrees and many
others clearly separate between "obedient" tribes and rebellious ones, who
decided to shake off Ottoman rule.40 (This separation, as we shall see later,
was crucial for understanding the socio­ecological system that united bedouin
and sedentary populations).

Bedouin contribution to the economy, however, involved much more than

buying arms and munitions. For one thing, bedouin were the main source of
supply of cattle, sheep and their produce. They also provided camels and
horses for transportation. livestock was raised in pasture land in the desert, and
in draught periods, or as summer approached, increasingly close to villages on
the desert's edge, where villagers also raised their cattle and sheep. The need
to share pasture was the source of much friction between the bedouin and the
villagers, but it also created a special sort of relationship between shepherds on
both sides. Village shepherds needed the goodwill and protection of the
bedouin, who in turn needed the markets of villages and towns to sell their
produce and buy munitions. The shepherd community, sometimes referred to
as al­baqqara, used to mediate and help defuse crisis situations.41

One domain in which the bedouin were considered unparalleled experts was
the breeding and training of racehorses. Arabian mares of noble stock were a
rare and expensive commodity. Many members of the governing elite and the
local notable elite, including sipahis, janissaries, ulema and merchants, bought
horses and mares from the bedouin, and frequently left
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them to be trained and cared for by the breeder. A special relationship evolved
between the owners and the trainers, sometimes reflected in records of trials
involving a breach of agreement. One record in the sijill, dated 1615, refers to
several aspects of such a relationship:
On 23 Shawwal 1024 a suit was filed by Khudawardi (Hudaverdi) ibn Ya'qub, the
turjuman (translator, negotiator) of the Armenian community in Jerusalem,
against Samariyya ibn 'Amr, of the tribe of 'Arab al­Ja'ila, who [according to the
suit] laid his hand upon a bright­colored thoroughbred filly, in which the
plaintiff had a share. The plaintiff declared that another share, a quarter of the
said filly, was owned by Hajj Da'ud ibn Muhammad ibn 'Abd Rabbihi, and the
remaining quarter by Khalil ibn Ahmad, a Janissary in the city's citadel. In his
suit the plaintiff demanded his share, allegedly unlawfully appropriated by the
defendant.

The bedouin defendant replied that the share in question was given to him by
Hajj Da'ud as payment for the care, training and fodder of the filly, as is
customary among horse breeders (arbab al­khayl). In response the plaintiff
brought several witnesses who supported his claim of ownership. In light of the
evidence, the qadi ruled in favor of the plaintiff, and instructed the defendant,
Samariyya ibn 'Amr, to transfer his share, half of the ownership, to the plaintiff.
42

The strange partnership between a Christian with a Turkish name, a local

notable, a janissary, and a bedouin, does not concern us here, although it
poses some interesting questions. Neither do questions pertaining to the use of
the filly and the way it was being shared. The thing that is most striking,
perhaps, is the ongoing relationship between a group of city dignitaries and
members of a bedouin tribe. The fact that the young mare was left at the
bedouin encampment outside the city walls required the conclusion of complex
and costly agreements, and necessitated a great deal of stability and mutual
trust. It appears from the document that such deals were common and
provided solutions for expected problems "as is customary among horse
breeders." In addition to the economic aspects of such transactions, they must
have involved an unusual social dimension. Since Bedouin trainers kept the
horses, members of the elite had to leave the city and visit the horse at the
trainer's encampment.

Camels were also raised by tribesmen. In an arid land they provided the best,
and sometimes the only effective means of transportation. The persistent
involvement of Ottoman authorities in matters concerning the supply of camels
for the hajj caravan, and the squabbles between province officials over the
right to ride one during the long trip to Mecca, emphasize their importance.
Correspondence between the center and the provinces
 Page 105

alludes to the constant tribulations in Istanbul and Damascus between the wish
to rent many camels in order to allow the officers and officials a comfortable
ride, and the high cost of these vehicles. In a decree sent to the governor of
Damascus in 1637, the problems are clearly defined:
A petition was sent to my palace [lit., ''my threshold of felicity"] by the guards
stationed at the citadel in Damascus. Ever since the Ottoman conquest [the
petitioners wrote] each year a task force is appointed to defend and maintain the
forts on the Hajj route: twenty­six soldiers, two cebecis (arms and armor
experts,) six 'arabacis (carriage drivers) and a carpenter. Apart from their
expenses and the camels they are allocated in accordance with the defters, they
were also accustomed to be given five additional camels for the people of the
armory (cebehane). In the last few years some of the distinguished officials,
including the kâtip (secretary) of the janissaries, the mukabeleci (administrative
clerk), the bas çavus (janissary commander) and the serdar (commander), were
not allocated camels for the Hajj. As a result [these officials took possession of
the camels intended for the armory and] the armory people are forced to walk on
foot or ride in the carriages. This state of affairs causes much disorder and
difficulty. The decree instructs the governor to allocate a camel to each member
of the convoy, including five to the armory, and to refrain from obstructing them
in their duties. 43

The problem was not limited to the military and government spheres alone.
Pilgrims on their way to the hajj were just as anxious to rent camels to
transport them and their munitions. As the hajj period approached, and the
pilgrims assembled, bedouin camel drivers also appeared at the gates of
Damascus, Jerusalem and other cities. Soon they were all concluding deals,
renting camels and presenting their drivers. Many women, fearing they would
be unable to withstand the rigors of the road to Mecca on foot, rented a camel
and a driver, or sometimes shared one with other pilgrims. In most cases the
camels were supposed to carry water and munitions on the long and arduous
way to the holy shrines. Prices ran high. In the middle of the seventeenth
century a sum of 85 ghurosh was paid for "half a camel" to be shared by two
pilgrims.44 The high sums that pilgrims were willing to pay were an enticement
for fraud, and an Ottoman decree of 1690 criticizes the practice and its
outcome:
When pilgrims gather in Damascus, camel­renters arrive and promise them a
regal trip to Mecca, for which they demand payment in advance. When the deal
is concluded they bring old, weak and sick camels. The pilgrims are obliged to
carry large quantities of expensive
 Page 106

food and water not just for themselves, but also for the camel and its driver.
They are often forced to seek loans from the city's merchants. Along the road
they throw away part of the munitions in order to lighten the camel's load, and
as their journey comes to its end they are left miserable and bitter. 45

Yet, despite the central importance of camels and horses as vehicles and status
symbols, the main role of the bedouin in the local economy lay elsewhere.
Bedouin tribes had a central role in one of the most widespread and lucrative
industries in Palestine—the production of soap.

Soap, and the alkaline ashes needed to produce it, were a substantial part of
local exports since the beginning of the century. The quantities exported rose
considerably in the course of the century. According to records in Marseilles'
Chamber of Commerce, the quantity of soap and ashes exported from Jaffa
rose sevenfold between 1615 and 1636. The same was true in the other ports
of Palestine. "In Gaza," wrote a merchant who visited the country in 1655, "the
greatest tread is in sope and lining cloth." Another traveler, who visited Jaffa in
1669, claims that ashes for the production of soap, along with cotton, are its
major exports. In the course of the 1670s a battle for the rights to acquire and
export soap was waged between the French traders in Acre and those in the
Lebanese port of Sayda (Sidon). Ashes continued to be a major item of export
well into the eighteenth century.46

In the production of soap cooperation between townsmen, villagers and

nomads was crucial. Soap was manufactured from a mixture of olive oil,
limewater and alkaline ashes (from the Arabic word al­qali) obtained by
burning desert wormwood bushes. Villagers supplied olive oil, and bedouin
supplied the ashes. In the sixteenth century merchants used to venture into the
desert to obtain ashes, but in the following century supply routes were
maintained, and the tribesmen themselves delivered loads of alkaline ashes to
the manufacturers. Large camel caravans frequently visited the city of
Jerusalem unloading sacks of ash, and probably stocking up on other
commodities. In his book about the history of Nabulus and the Balqa' area,
Ihsan al­Nimr mentions caravans of up to a thousand camels carrying qali from
the desert to the cities of Nabulus and Jerusalem.47

These essential components were brought by the villagers and the bedouin to
special workshops in the city, where all the ingredients were compounded and
soap was manufactured by a long process of cooking, pouring into moulds,
cutting and drying. Such workshops were owned and operated for the most
part by notables and members of the governing elite. Periods of strife between
the tribes and the city were liable to cause considerable financial damage to
these owners, who enjoyed most of the
 Page 107

added value of the finished product. Notables in the city therefore had a vested
interest in maintaining good relations with the bedouin. 48 Soap manufacturing
also entailed financial gains for bedouin and villagers. It appears to have
propelled power struggles in which villagers and bedouin tribes cooperated
against other similar groups. A series of records in the Jerusalem sijill from the
beginning of the century describes such an incident and its aftermath:
On 11 Dhu al­Hijja 1032 (1623) the kethüda (deputy) of Jerusalem's governor
arrived in court. He reported to the qadi the events of a violent incident which
took place on the way from Jerusalem to the Jordan valley: Members of the
obedient Balaqina tribe ('Arab al­Balaqina al­ta'i'in) who bring samnah
(clarified butter), sheep and ashes to the city of Jerusalem, brought a large
shipment of ashes and sold it in town. On their way back east they were
attacked by villagers and other tribesmen near the village of al­'Azariyya.

In the battle that ensued two of the [Balaqina] tribesmen were killed, as well as a
large number of camels. The kethüda requested that the court conduct an
inquiry into the incident. With the qadi's consent an officer of the court was
appointed and dispatched to the scene along with the kethüda and his team.
Inside the village the team found the bodies of two people, and thirteen dead
camels. They conducted an investigation and found out that the Balaqina had
been attacked by the tribes of 'Arab al­Ka'abina, 'Arab al­Ramtahat(?) 'Arab
Zubaydallah, and 'Arab Haytham al­Bagharitha, along with villagers from Tur,
al­'Isawiyya, 'Ayn Silwan, Dayr al­sadd, Bayt Sahur, Sur Bahir, Dayr Abu Thawr,
Abu Dis, Dayr Bani Sa'id and Bayt Lahm (Bethlehem), as well as the group of
shepherds (ta'ifat al­baqqara). The Balaqina retreated in the direction of the
main road leading to the Jordan valley. Sixteen of the camels, pushed to the
edge of the road, tumbled each other into the creek below. Thirteen died and the
other three are kept, injured, at the village. Among the dead camels the villagers
found the bodies of two Balaqina tribesmen. Two of the assailants were also
killed.49

In the style and custom of sijill investigations, there is no attempt to clarify the
motives and explain the causes which brought about this lethal incident.
Motivation and cause were apparently irrelevant to the description and
adjudication of criminal cases. These were always dealt with on the basis of
events alone. On the other hand, the reasons were probably so obvious to the
qadi and his people that no further discussion was needed. It may have been
sparked by jealousy and resentment of the Balaqinas' good relations with the
city, or of their monopoly of the trade
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in ashes. But there may have been other reasons. 1623 was a drought year,
and the shortage of water caused tensions inside and outside the city. In any
case it should be noted that the culprits who attacked the Balaqina caravan
included both bedouin and villagers, who cooperated in what seems like a
carefully planned and concerted ambush. The court saw the Balaqinas and
their alignment as its allies, and the rest, including the villagers, as the offenders
who should be punished and forced to compensate the victims. 50

From the background given in the record we learn that tribesmen used to bring
quantities of alkaline ashes, as well as sheep and milk products to the city.
These products were carried by large camel convoys, attested to by the
number of camels killed in the incident, and by the very long list of villages and
tribes who took part in the attack. The convoys were allowed to enter the city
and sell their produce to prospective buyers. The document bears witness to
the economic importance of the bedouin in the district, and to the complexity of
social ties between the sedentary population and the nomadic tribes.

One Social System?

Borders delineating geographic zones are sometimes imaginary. Even when the
border separates two political entities, and its definition serves a clear
purpose—blocking the enemy, collecting taxes, recruiting soldiers—it is not
always dearly defined. In many cases the border is a vast middle area where a
unique culture is created. All the more so when the border is said to define a
society, a culture, or a climatic zone.

In his classic work on the Mediterranean in the era of Philip II, Fernand
Braudel sets out to classify the shores of the Mediterranean according to their
landscape and their climate, assuming that each landscape and climate leads to
the development of a different culture. The sea itself, its coasts, the plains, the
hills, and the mountains around it, all gave rise to different kinds of societies in
premodern history. Great civilizations usually evolved between the coastal
plains and the mountains, where the climate was moderate and transportation
simple. In these areas it was easier to create structures of discipline and
hierarchy. In the mountains, on the other hand, where inhabitants tended to
protect their independence jealously, the hold of "civilization" was always
precarious. Sea shores and plains were prone to be flooded or swamped, but
when their inhabitants managed to control and direct the water flow, they soon
became rich agricultural societies. The sea itself, and the islands in it, also
generated a particular culture of fishermen and sailors.51
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Braudel also discusses the nomadic cultures typical of considerable parts of the
Mediterranean basin. Nomads, he says, are a mountain culture by nature,
moving in yearly cycles between the mountains and the sea. Their mobility and
the effortless manner in which they cross climatic borders should not blur the
distinct features of the nomads as a separate society different from the others.
Braudel agrees with Ibn Khaldun that nomadic culture, and especially that of
the desert nomads, the bedouin, is opposed to that of other sedentary cultures.
It is "the clash between two economies, civilizations, societies and arts of
living." 52

Though sometimes general and inaccurate, Braudel's definitions may help us

pinpoint the main differences between Mediterranean societies. Yet they might
also obfuscate distinctions and divert our attention from other forms of
Mediterranean social culture. These are perhaps more prominent along the
southern and eastern shores of the sea, where lines of demarcation between
landscapes are not so clear. In Palestine, for instance, the mountains are
relatively small in size and height. In the south the desert merges with the coast.
What sort of cultures would develop here? Do Braudelian categories apply, or
should other categories be determined? In short, are we to describe nomads
and sedentary populations as two different societies, or as part of one social
structure?

Dale Eickelman, focusing on relations between nomads and sedentary

populations from an anthropological point of view, refers mainly to the
proximity and mutual reliance of nomad and settled societies on the periphery
of the desert. He stresses the importance of this reliance to the actual existence
of the nomads. According to Eickelman, in no historical period can nomads be
regarded as an autonomous society:
Both in recent decades and in earlier historical periods, the political and social
relations of pastoral groups with the peasant settlements, towns and states that
are on the periphery of zones of intense pastoral activity have been as
important for their livelihood as pastoralism itself.… Pastoral agriculture and
trade activities are part of a single economic system articulated by various forms
of social and political domination.53

From the source material presented above, however, we can draw the further
conclusion that at certain points in time the dependence of towns and villages
on the nomads was no less crucial to their own existence and well­being. The
two groups, or, should we say, three—nomads, villagers and townsmen—
needed each other, and their interdependence is a key element in
understanding their economy, their politics, and even their culture. These
communities were not divided by a boundary. The border
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surrounded climatic and geographic divides, transforming them into the focal
point of a unique social experiment.

Early functionalistic theories would describe society as a body within which

members cooperate to form a functioning entity. A later version would regard
the attainment of complete integration as an almost impossible task, which
societies might strive toward, but seldom reach. If we accept these premises,
then the district of Jerusalem in the Ottoman period may certainly be defined as
one society in the way it adapted to its ecological and economic surroundings,
and in its ability to attain its political goals. 54

For other schools of thought the only valid definitions of a society are
economic: "We take the defining characteristic of a social system," says
Immanuel Wallerstein, "to be the existence within it of a division of labor, such
that the various sectors or areas within are dependent upon economic
exchange with others for the smooth and continuous provisioning of the needs
of the area. Such economic exchange can clearly exist without a common
political structure and even more obviously without sharing the same culture."55

Such a definition would regard the district of Jerusalem as an almost perfect

social system. Admittedly, the district paid a tribute to the imperial center (or,
in other words, the division of labor stretched beyond its borders) and was not
an entirely self­sufficient economy. But in practical terms most of the economic
surplus flowed back into the local economy, in what may be termed "short
taxation cycles" (see Chapter 6). It may be claimed therefore that an almost full
division of labor—and hence an entire social system integrating bedouin,
villagers and townsmen—existed within the district's borders.

But was this society merely a well­rounded economic structure? Was it just a
politically effective group of people? In functionalist terminology we may ask to
what extent can it be considered one society in terms of its integration—the
willingness of its members to cooperate with each other—and in terms of its
latency—the internal "programming" of individuals to willingly join and fulfill
roles in society? Adherents of yet another approach would put the question
differently: Was there any form of coherent discourse between subgroups?
Did they use the same set of signs and symbols? Did they intermarry? Did they
refer to the same set of social norms?56

Source material pertaining to these questions is scarce. In most cases we do

not possess what Clifford Geertz would call a "thick description" of this
society. There are no reports of discussions between individuals, and relatively
few descriptions of its levels of contact. It is almost impossible, for instance, to
assess the attitude of the bedouin towards sedentary
 Page 111

groups, and even the way bedouin were regarded by townsmen and villagers is
hard to gauge. We can only point out a few facts which are relevant to this
quest. 57

Through descriptions of bedouin activity in the military and economic spheres,

we can draw some conclusions about their attachment to local society. Army
service brought them closer to the governing elite. Control of fiefs, ranging from
the smallest timars to entire sanjaqs, was considered by some bedouin
sheikhs a recognition of their status as part of the elite. From descriptions of
the Turabay court in Lajjun, it appears that they embraced some traditional
Ottoman status symbols—scribes, secretaries, eunuchs, music bands and
perhaps even Ottoman dress. They bound themselves to other governing
families through marriage, and probably saw themselves as part of a ruling elite
with shared interests which overshadowed their identity as bedouins.58

Other townsmen, belonging to the local notable elite, met and associated with
bedouin under different circumstances: active and widespread commercial
relations, transportation needs, and a shared interest in horses and equestrian
sports. In the lower echelons of society it is even more difficult to trace the
evidence of a common sociocultural system. In the sijill there are few records
of marriage between bedouin and others, but this in itself does not mean that
no such marriages took place. Most of the marriage contracts outside the city
walls were not registered in the sijill. Another significant indication of bedouin
cultural impact on town dwellers may be the popular custom of parading the
bride and her dowry on decorated camels prior to the wedding banquet.59

Other points of contact were religious and legal institutions. From time to time
bedouin arrived in town to obtain afatwa or a ruling in matters that concerned
them. Muhibbi claims that the good relations between bedouin tribes and the
governors of Gaza in the seventeenth century stemmed in part from their
respect and admiration for the mufti Khayr al­Din al­Ramli. In other cases
tribesmen were summoned to court, or came there of their own free will to file
a complaint. The sijill records several instances in which bedouin were
summoned as defendants, or asked to give testimony. Some of those
summoned actually arrived and presented their case. This would suggest the
existence of constant channels of communication between the court and the
tribes around the city. It also implies a willingness on the part of the bedouin to
accept the court's authority and to see it as an arbitrator and peace­maker.60

The fact that bedouin were often summoned by name, or sued as private
people, suggests that they were seen by local authorities as individuals. When
crimes were committed, there was an attempt to apprehend the culprits
themselves. At least in some cases only the perpetrators of a crime
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were punished, and not the whole tribe. The image of the nomad in the mind of
city dwellers was apparently not monolithic and stereotypic. It reflected a
recognition that the nomadic world was more complex and varied.

On the other side of the equation, bedouin and villagers cooperated in resisting
authority, and in raids on caravans, other villages, or other bedouin tribes. Such
raids were seldom perpetrated by bands of thieves or marauders joined on an
individual basis. In most cases a village joined forces with a bedouin clan or
tribe. At times the gang was headed by a charismatic leader, leading it from
raid to raid. At other times forces were joined for a single raid upon enemies,
like the raid on the Balaqina. Some of these alliances of villages and tribes may
have originated in the Qaysi­Yamani dispute, which split the Palestinian and
Lebanese countryside in later centuries, but there is no mention of such a
motivation in the sijill and little in other contemporary sources. 61

The district of Jerusalem and its surroundings at the time may be described as
being comprised of several zones or tiers. There was an inner zone of
permanent towns and villages along the watershed line and westward to the
coastal plain. Another unstable sedentary zone traced the periphery of the
desert, which fluctuated in times of drought between pastoral and agricultural
activities;62 A third zone, included "obedient" tribes; and a fourth, made up of
other tribes, some of them rebellious. Clearly this last division, between
obedient and rebellious tribes, originated in the Ottoman center, and was much
more volatile and uncertain than the others. Obedient tribes rebelled from time
to time, while tribes in a state of insurrection were appeased and incorporated.

Social interaction existed between all four zones. A particularly strong bond
tied together the second and third tiers—villages on the desert's edge and
bedouin tribes residing in proximity—based on their common livelihood, and
perhaps on a myth of common ancestry. There may have been some genuine
family relations and past migrations from village to tribe and vice versa,
although we have no evidence to support such assumptions. Military service
and economic activities connected towns in the first zone to tribes in the third
and fourth zones.

The social system drawing nomads and settled populations together was
therefore deep and multilayered. Social relations ranged from the local
Ottoman governing elite, even at the level of district governors, to the lowest
echelons of society in remote villages and tribes. Aside from the crucial
importance of bedouin to the economy, and from their role in political affairs, a
meaningful sociocultural relationship bound together bedouin, villagers and
townsmen in the district of Jerusalem. This relationship found expression both
on the establishment side of the political
 Page 113

system, and in its resistant opposition. All contributed to the creation of a single
discursive structure.

It is harder to say whether this was a constant state of affairs, or whether, on

the contrary, the seventeenth century was a unique period in history that does
not resemble other periods. There is hardly any doubt that parts of this unified
social system existed in earlier and later centuries. Other elements are
distinctive of this time and place. It may be worthwhile to point out the
historical context, the unique features of the seventeenth century that reinforced
such a social system.

At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Ottoman conquest introduced the
massive use of firearms, almost unknown before. Until that time bedouin tribes,
like their Mamluk overlords, relied heavily on lances, swords, bows and
arrows. Due to their use of firearms, Ottoman forces defeated their Mamluk
rivals with ease, and managed to instill fear and discipline among the bedouins.
In the following years, however, bedouin tribesmen mastered the use of guns.
Soon guns became commonplace and the bedouin excelled at the new type of
warfare. Victory, so easily attained by the Ottomans at the beginning of the
century, became a bitter continuous struggle a few decades later, in which
bedouin frequently had the upper hand. Ottoman governments, realizing the
dangers inherent in the situation, tried in vain to block channels of arms supply.
The situation was exacerbated by the growing incompetence of sipahis and the
janissaries, and by the gradual withdrawal of the Ottoman government from
provincial affairs.

Local governors had to choose between two options: a costly, perhaps futile
war against the beoduin, and finding a modus vivendi with them to maintain
the peace. They chose a third: Some bedouin tribes were incorporated into the
system, while others were branded rebels. Thus the governors sometimes took
over existing feuds between warring tribes, and found themselves involved, not
always willingly, in internal bedouin affairs. In general, however, this policy
allowed the local government considerable room for action, and provided the
district of Jerusalem and adjacent districts with a measure of security.

Several generations of local rulers, most of them scions or mamloks of former

governors in the region created a stable relationship with the bedouin, based on
payments of money, alliances and marriage. For the governing elite ties with the
neighbors in the desert also meant considerable profits accruing from trade,
and from lower spending on security. As long as they stayed in power, they did
not prohibit ties between bedouin and other social groups. On the contrary,
allying themselves with the nomads, they enhanced social and cultural norms
already in existence in society. The process of integration was accelerated by a
decentralized
 Page 114

system of government at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Local

governors soon filled the void left by the central government, and were free to
pursue their policy of rapprochement with some of the bedouin.

This tendency was reversed towards the end of the century, when the
government in Istanbul decided to enforce central rule upon the provinces. A
first step on the way to resume control of the empire was the destruction of
local dynasties and their replacement by appointed governors. At this stage ties
may have been severed, or at least damaged, between the new governors and
tribal sheikhs. The Turabays and other bedouin dynasties were eliminated, and
there was no one to bridge the widening gaps.

Economic and social relations were somewhat more stable, but they too were
endangered by political realities. At the turn of the century ties between
sedentary and nomad populations were weak and unstable. Still, the relatively
short period of central dictate did not cut all ties, and another cycle of
decentralized rule brought the two components of local society closer together
once again. The rise to power of bedouin leaders like Zahir al­'Umar, who
ruled most of Palestine several decades later, can thus be seen in a different
light. It was not another incident demonstrating the extent of bedouin
encroachment on the sedentary regions of Palestine previously held by the
Ottomans, but rather a continuation of a long­term phenomenon in the political
and social life of the region: the bedouin were part of society, and played a
pivotal role in all spheres of life. With the rise of Zahir al­'Umar, foundations
were laid for a new cycle of integration. 63
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Chapter 5
Layers of Ownership
Land and Agrarian Relations
Wherever land and agriculture play an important part in local produce, and
comprise a large share of people's income, understanding the systems of land
tenure provides an insight into the social structure. Agrarian relations indicate
tensions between social groups, and even provide a glimpse of changes before
they occur. In the context of the Ottoman Empire, several questions have
dominated research in recent years. These questions are relevant both in the
''macro" overview—understanding Ottoman economy and society in the early
modern period—and in smaller historical environments—the lives of small
groups, families and individuals. 1

One such issue is the change of emphasis in the empire from an agrarian system
based on timars to one based on tax farming, known as iltizam. In Marxian
terms both systems could be described as techniques of surplus appropriation
and redistribution, or, in other words, as ways of collecting taxes and
reallocating them. Both existed in the Ottoman Empire from its early days, but
until the sixteenth century the timar—allocation of income from fiefs to those
favored by the sultan and his government, in return for the collection of taxes
and for the provision of a small contingent of cavalry—was the dominant
system. Only later, in the so called "period of decline," did iltizam—leasing the
right to collect future taxes from a district or province in return for a sum of
money paid to the treasury in advance—become a primary tool of surplus
appropriation. The change of emphasis from land­based timar to money­
based iltizam was a result of several simultaneous developments: the need to
pay salaries to new
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mercenary troops, the abundance of silver coins, and the monetarization of the
economy. 2 It has been assumed that the shift from one system to the other
was always a simple, one­phase transformation which gained the upper hand
when the outdated timar mechanism failed to meet the requirements of the
state, and the Ottoman bureaucracy and war machine were desperately short
of money. A closer look at local sources may suggest that at least in some
areas the shift was gradual, involving many small incremental changes in local
economy and land tenure.3

The same question is examined from a different point of view in neo­Marxist

economic theories, where Ottoman history from the sixteenth century onward
is viewed mainly as the process of the empire's transformation into a peripheral
zone of the European and Atlantic world economy. In this context the shift
from timar to iltizam is seen as part of the region's peripheralization. The new
agrarian system gave rise to a stratum of local notables and to the
commercialization of agriculture. Notable groups, which gained political and
economic ascendancy through their control of tax farms, relinquished the old
economic system, depleted land resources, and brought the entire region under
the hegemony of Western Europe. An accurate description of agrarian
relations may therfore indicate whether such a process took place in the
seventeenth century, and the state of subsequent integration into the world
economy.4

Tensions between the state and the elite are also reflected in systems of land
tenure. In many authoritarian states a permanent conflict exists between two
concepts of surplus appropriation. Some states collect taxes directly from
cultivators through a bureaucracy of tax collectors. Others evolve a more
decentralized system, in which cultivators pay a rent (as money or other
services) to a quasi­feudal landowner. When the state entrusts a land­based
elite with the collection of taxes, the natural tendency of the elite is to privatize
the land and to bequeath it to descendants, or, in other words, to convert the
tax into rent. This is a sure sign of the state's weakness.5 For hundreds of
years the Ottoman Empire resisted the provincial elite's attempts to privatize
lands allocated as timars. In view of the fact that most timar holders did not
emerge as a landholding group in later centuries, we may ask ourselves
whether they succeeded at any time in converting tax into rent, and, on the
other hand, what were the means and the mechanisms by which the state
managed to maintain its ultimate control over land tenure even in remote
provinces. Another aspect of the tax­rent tension is its implications for the
cultivators themselves. In tax­collecting states the actual distance between the
state and the cultivator frequently results in a lack of interest in crops and in
techniques of production. In contrast, in a feudal system landowners are in
direct contact with cultivators, allowing for rapid development on the one hand,
and increasing social tension on the other.
 Page 117

By describing agrarian relations in the district of Jerusalem throughout the

seventeenth century, we may begin to answer some of these questions, and to
analyze their meaning for the district and for the empire as a whole. Let us first
turn to an overview of the most common Ottoman systems of agrarian relations
in the period, and to the form they assumed in the region.

Systems of Land Tenure—An Overview

The timar was a well­established economic and military system long before
the Ottomans adopted it. Some trace its origins to the Byzantine pronoia ,
while others emphasize its Islamic origins in the Seljuq and Abbasid periods. In
its adapted Ottoman version, it was intended to provide an income for one
officer, in most cases a sipahi, and for his crew of trained horsemen. A regular
timar was a small fief, comprising one or several smaller villages, and yielding
up to 20,000 akçe per year. Larger fiefs called zeamet (or za'ama in Arabic)
yielding between 20,000 and 100,000 akçe a year, were given to higher­
ranking officers or officials. An even bigger estate, called has (khas in Arabic)
yielding more than 100,000 akçe, was earmarked for district and province
governors, or for senior officials in the provincial administration. Timariots were
required to help collect the taxes imposed on the inhabitants of their fiefs, to act
as a local garrison when needed, and to report to duty with their contingent
when the imperial army went to war. Some of the timar holders were originally
the sultan's slaves (kapi kullari), while others were part of a native military
elite incorporated into the Ottoman army. In the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries most sipahis were stationed in areas remote from their native lands.
This policy may have been intended to prevent the consolidation of rebellious
local forces based on ethnic or regional solidarity. 6

Sipahis, and other dignitaries who received a timar or a zeamet, were not the
owners of the land. Most of the empire's territory was considered state land,
officially the property of the sultan himself. It was entrusted to his servants for a
limited duration, ranging from several years to a lifetime. As a rule all berats
(deeds conferring an estate or any other privilege) were invalidated with the
death of a sultan and had to be renewed by his successor. The sultan could
divide fiefs as he saw fit, pass them on from one person to the next, or change
their designation. In most cases berat holders were not allowed to sell their
fiefs or to divide them. They needed special permission to bequeath them to
their sons. The berat enabled them to collect taxes defined by law, either in
money or in kind, and to keep a certain share for themselves.7
 Page 118

Timars were typically rurally based. In towns and cities, however, a similar
system was implemented, based on urban crafts and commerce. Timars were
part of this system known as iqta'—the allocation of a tax yielding segment of
the economy to a person or institution. In Ottoman usage timars were just one
form of iqta'. Many Ottoman officials received nonagricultural muqata'as in
the provinces. Such a muqata'a might have consisted of the taxes and customs
levied from ships entering a port, or from the hisba taxes in a town's market. In
addition to being a prevalent system of tax collection and wage payment, the
iqta' soon became a status symbol and a cultural building­block of the
governing elite in the provinces. Those who aspired for a place at the top
regarded the acquisition of an iqta' as a symbol of their entry into the elite.
Control of an iqta' placed them on a higher rung on the social ladder, not only
above the reaya, but also above junior officers and officials.

Alongside the timar, waqf institutions were a common mechanism for

controlling and overseeing rural land and urban assets, and for the
redistribution of economic surplus. Waqfs could be consecrated by any owner
of property (including, of course, the sultan himself and members of his
household.) The endowment of property as a waqf was based upon the
Islamic principle of separation between the actual ownership of the property
(raqaba) and the usufruct (tasarruf)—profits accruing from its use. A man
dedicating a waqf (muqif) could name any person or group as beneficiaries:
himself, his family, the poor of the city, a school, a mosque or a Sufi
brotherhood. These beneficiaries were entitled to part of the usufruct. They did
not own the property, and could not dispose of it or exchange it by sale or
other means, except by authorization of the waqf's supervisor (mutawalli, or
mütevelli in Turkish). 8

In this respect waqf and timar were very much alike. In both systems the
ultimate ownership and the usufruct were clearly separated. The differences
between the two lay in the purpose of the endowment, and in the social groups
entitled to the profit. While those who benefitted from the timar were
exclusively members of the governing elite, waqf institutions frequently
designated the poor, the Sufis or students in a madrasa as beneficiaries. And
while a list of the waqf's beneficiaries could only be changed in court, in
keeping with the original endowment deed (waqfiyya), timariots were replaced
by the sultan's decision, or in some cases by the provincial governor.9 In
Palestine vast tracts of land, including many villages, were designated as waqf,
the profits of which went to institutions of charity, piety or learning in Jerusalem
and in other towns.

In the late sixteenth century, a time of dire economic straits, high inflation, and a
decrease in the pace of conquest, the Ottoman Empire gradually neglected the
timar system and replaced it with iltizam. The main
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reason for the change was the economic inadequacy of the old timar system,
the impact of European warfare techniques, and the rapid evolution of the
battlefield, which turned the timar­based cavalry into an obsolete fighting
force. The new Ottoman army, based to a great extent on paramilitary armed
units, had no need for old­fashioned knights, and could not rely on the very
slow recruitment mechanism of sipahis in the provinces. Furthermore, the
impoverished empire could not afford to pay its growing new standing army,
while allocating most of its land resources to sipahis. Although no formal
decision is known to have been made in the matter, Ottoman governments
refrained as a rule from allocating new timars to officers, and instead tried to
convert as much land as possible into tax farms.

In the new system, the guiding principles were entirely different. The tax­farmer
(multazim, mültezim) used to pay a sum of money in advance, in return for
the right of collect taxes for a short duration (in the 1600s usually one to three
years). Having received authorization, again in the form of a berat, he would
proceed to the region, or send a representative, to collect his due. As a result,
it is claimed, the quality and produce of agricultural land declined rapidly.
Unlike his predecessor the sipahi, who intended to keep using the territory for
several years, the multazim leased the right to collect taxes for a short period,
and was only interested in maximizing profits. 10

In parts of the province of Damascus iltizam was already a widespread

agrarian system in the sixteenth century, and according to Abu Husayn, the
economy of the entire province was based on tax farming.11 It appears,
however, that in the district of Jerusalem and in neighboring districts iltizam
was limited to very small areas until the end of the seventeenth century, and
represented just a small fraction of taxes collected. Most of the region was
divided into timars. A direct testimony is brought by Evliya Çelebi, who visited
Jerusalem in the early 1670s:
The district of Jerusalem is allocated as an arpalik [literally, "barley fee"—an
estate granted to provide temporary income to a member of the elite with no
appointment]. It is a has estimated at 257,485 a kçe. The district includes 9
zeamets and 106 timars.… This is a prosperous region, but the timariots
residing in it do not have to serve in the battlefield, and their only duty is to
accompany the pilgrims to their destinations.12

Evliya's testimony cannot be taken at face value. It is often inaccurate and

embellished. But in this case it is corroborated by the sijill, by the mühimme
defterleri and byfatawa books throughout the period.13 A reference
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to the number of timars in the neighboring district of Nabulus can be found in a

sijill record from the mid­seventeenth century:
On 16 Jumada al­Ula 1066 (13 March 1656) the alaybey of Nabulus (a
commander of sipahis) Muhammad Aga arrived in the majlis, accompanied by
several of the timariots and holders of zeamet in the district. Among them were
Mustafa Bey ibn 'Umar Aga Arnaut (the Albanian), 'Ali Bey ibn Muhammad,
Sayfuash Bey ibn 'Abdallah, and others. They all filed a complaint against one
of their peers. The timariots claimed that they possess a sultanic decree
exempting them from paying the bedeliye tax (a tax imposed on sipahis who did
not participate in an imperial campaigns). The reason for this exemption is their
official duty of protecting the pilgrims and travelers on their way to Jerusalem
and Hebron. They also presented letters from the governor of Damascus to that
effect.

In spite of these assurances, they said, this time they were all demanded to pay
a fine of 1,800 ghurosh, because they failed to join the army on a recent
campaign. Dividing the fine between them they decided that every thousand
[each income unit of 1,000 a kçe in a timar] should pay 4.5 ghurosh. They
claimed that the defendant promised to pay his share, and since the income from
his zeamet is 31,000 a kçe, he has to pay 140 ghurosh. The defendant denied the
charge, but the testimony of two janissaries from Damascus convinced the qadi
of his guilt, and he was instructed to pay his share of the fine. 14

A perfunctory glance at this record would reveal that timariots and zeamet
holders were still very prominent in Nabulus late in the seventeenth century,
while simple arithmetic would show us that the official estimate of income from
timars and zeamets in the district at the time was 400,000 akçe {(1800:4.5)
× 1000 = 400,000)}. This represented a substantial part of the small district's
surplus, and does not leave much room for tax farming.

The abundance of documents dealing with timar in the sijills of Jerusalem and
Nabulus, in the Mühimme and infatawa books, as opposed to the trickle of
documents concerning iltizam, support this conclusion. A sample check of
twenty­five villages in seventeenth­century sijills, compared to their status in
the previous century according to tapu­tahrir (tax assessment and census)
registers of Jerusalem, reveals that most villages did not change their status,
and none were referred to as part of an iltizam. Wherever minute changes did
occur, they did not transfer the village from one designation to another. Thus
the village of Bayt Imrin, which the tahrirs listed as a timar, was referred to as
a zeamet a century later. In other cases the tahrir describes a village as
divided between two or three authorities, while the sijill mentions only one.
The village of Bayt Safafa, for
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instance, is mentioned in the sijill as part of a timar, while the tahrir register
describes it as part timar and part waqf. But even in such cases it may be
assumed that there was no change, and that scribes in the qadi's majlis, writing
in the sijill, referred only to the part of the village that was of interest at that
particular moment for the case pending in court. 15

Inalcik suggests a possibility of change into another agrarian mode as an interim

stage. In his essay on centralization and decentralization in the empire, Inalcik
states that in the wake of the dissolution of the timar system in the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries, many districts in Anatolia were allocated as arpaliks
to holders of senior positions in Istanbul, or to commanders of forts on the
borders. A government official or a commander who was entrusted with such a
sanjaq did not reside in the district in person, but appointed a deputy to run it
in his absence. These deputies were frequently local notables, who, as
representatives of a distant governor, were able to consolidate their political
status. Thus, little by little, control of the provinces passed into the hands of the
notables.16

There are clear indications that the use of arpalik was widespread in the
region, and especially in the district of Jerusalem. From the beginning of the
seventeenth century large estates, like the governor's has in Jerusalem, Gaza,
Safad or Karak­Shawbak, were entrusted from time to time to Ottoman
officials or to senior provincial governors waiting for an appointment. In
Ottoman documents these temporary arrangements were referred to as
arpalik, or "barley­fee," suggesting that they were intended to cover the
expenses of maintaining a small cavalry. The rank of those receiving the
arpalik was often higher than that of the district's regular governor. Many held
the title of Pasha, and had already governed a province. In several cases this
separation between the function of the district as a unit of administration, and
its role as a source of income for grandees, caused tensions and
misunderstandings between the center and the province. It is not clear whether
the bone of contention was control of the district, or whether it was related to
sources of income. But it appears that the Ottoman government itself failed to
clearly define the duties of an arpalik holder, and did not specify whether he
had to assume all the responsibilities of the governor.17

Such disputes are recorded in the sijill from the early seventeenth century.
Occasionally the qadi was asked to arbitrate between a governor, and a
distant arpalik holder who saw the district as his fief. Sometimes the two held
valid letters of appointment and argued over the income of the province. In one
case the arpalik holder claimed he had received the district for his entire
lifetime ('ala al­ta'bid), but was soon forced to relinquish control of the
district. Frequent changes in district governorships indicate that ümera from
local families and arpalik holders appointed by
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the central government vied for control of the district. In a register of provincial
appointments from the mid­seventeenth century, governors are replaced in
rapid succession. In 1041 (1631) Muhammad Pasha was appointed governor.
in 1046 (1636) the district was given as an arpalik to 'Ali Pasha, the deputy
(kethüda) of the grand vezir. Two years later, in 1048 (1638) it was allocated
to Muhammad, brother of the silahdar pasha. A year later it passed hands
again, this time as an arpalik, to Muhyi Pasha. Throughout this period
members of local dynasties in Palestine, the Farrukhs and the Ridwans, also
aspired to govern the district, and frequently took control, forcing the
government's hand. 18

Allocating the district's has as an arpalik caused severe problems and may
have been the cause of further disruption of the traditional system. In the past,
the district governor was also the commander of the local sipahi battalion. The
distant politics promoted by the arpalik system left the sipahis with no clear
chain of command, and contributed to the destruction of the timar system. It
may have also aided the rise of local notables to power by further
decentralizing the system in the district. But the arpalik did not constitute a
major change in land tenure and the economic structure of the district. Whether
appointed as an arpalik holder or a "regular" sanjaq bey, the governor had
direct economic control only over his own estate, the local has. The great bulk
of the territory was still administered by timariots and waqf institutions. In the
context of Jerusalem and its neighboring districts, arpalik did not replace the
timar system. Both institutions existed side by side for a long time, with no
apparent change in the patterns of agrarian relations.

We may sum up, therefore, and conclude that in the seventeenth­century

district of Jerusalem state­generated iltizam concessions did not constitute a
major threat to the old timar system, nor did the introduction of arpalik grants
change the basic pattern of land tenure. Side by side with the waqf, it was the
old iqta' system that served as a principal means to control land and its
produce. Waqf, iqta', or timar, however, were merely names for institutions
the structure and contents of which changed dramatically in the period under
consideration, to resemble a local variety of iltizam. In order to observe and
understand these changes, we must now turn away from the formal Ottoman
sources and look at these questions in their local context.

Systems of Land Tenure—An Underview

Since the beginning of the seventeenth century, timar holders attempted to

discard the burden of overseeing quarrelsome, recalcitrant villagers, and to
maximize their returns by leasing parts of their timar, and sometimes
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the entire fief. The lessees were in most cases other timariots, members of the
governing elite from other districts, or local notables. The timar was usually
leased for a year, sometimes for two or three years, and the lease payment for
each year was made in advance. The lessee was entitled to collect legally
sanctioned taxes as specified in the lease document. The leasing of timars had
its roots in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but as their main function was
blurred by other considerations, such practices became more widespread and,
later on, institutionalized. One document which bears evidence to the practice
and to some of its inherent difficulties is a record of a trial in 1656:
At the end of Muharram 1067 (mid­November 1656) a suit was filed in the
shari'a court of Nabulus, by the pride of his peers (fakhr aqranihi ) Ahmad Bey
ibn Sulayman ibn Mar'i, against the pride of his peers Muhammad Bey ibn
Sha'ban. In the trial, held in the presence of both, the plaintiff claimed that he
had leased his timar, in the villages of Tima and 'Arfit, to the defendant. The
timar is registered at a value of 3,300 'uthmani [a local name for a kçe]. It was
leased for a period of six years, and the defendant agreed to pay a rent of 34 and
1/3 ghurosh per year. Three years passed from the day the lease was signed,
and now the plaintiff reached the conclusion that it was not profitable, and that
he had lost money as a result of the deal. He demanded the cancellation of the
lease. When the defendant was questioned he confirmed the plaintiff's
description of the deal, but refused to "remove his hand" from the timar until
the end of the lease period, in three years' time.

In his conclusion, however, the qadi presiding over the case notified the
defendant Muhammad Bey that this lease is null and void from its inception
(inna hadhihi al­ijara batila min asliha), and instructed him to return the timar
to the plaintiff. Then, having resolved their monetary differences the plaintiff
paid the defendant twenty ghurosh, and the lease was cancelled. 19

This condensed record, which leaves many questions unanswered, describes a

practice which in later years became a common feature of agrarian relations.
The two timariots20 had concluded a private deal for leasing the timar. It
appears that the plaintiff failed to calculate his expected income. Perhaps he
did not take inflation into account, or did not expect the defendant to be so
efficient in collecting taxes. In any case, he regreted having made the deal, and
asked the defendant to revoke it. When the defendant refused, the plaintiff
took the case to court, where the two were notified by the qadi that the leasing
of timars is intrinsically illegal (according to the kanun), and that therefore the
deal has to be cancelled immediately.
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Since it was common knowledge, certainly among timariots, that it is illegal to

rent timars, the appeal to the majlis must have been calculated on the part of
the plaintiff, who hoped to have the contract revoked. Yet, as many other
records in the sijill reveal, such contracts were not considered illegal a priori,
and many of them were formally recorded in the sijill. Qadis had no
compunctions about recording such deals, and even provided the parties with
the legal jargon and flowery language suitable for concluding major contracts.
Here is a somewhat shortened version of such a record:

'Ali Aga, the muhzir bashi 21 rents from Mustafa Aga ibn Mahmud Jawish,22
holder of a zeamet in Jerusalem, half of all summer and winter crop taxes, olive
taxes, [and taxes for] rijaliyya,23 khamisiyya,24 marriage25 and subashiyya,26
and half of the bad­i hava,27 which he would be able to collect (ma 'asahu an
yatahassal) from the village of Mikhmas near Jerusalem. The lease period is one
year, and the rent is 50 ghurosh, to be deducted from the sum owed 'Ali Aga
(the lessee) by Mustafa Aga (the lessor) for a horse which he bought from
him.28

Towards the end of the century such records became very widespread,
perhaps ignored by the state, but in many cases encouraged by the
participation of senior officials from the provincial capital. Often several sipahis
took part together in a deal offering a greater tract of land to a potential lessee,
not infrequently a high­ranking officer or governor in Damascus or Istanbul:
On 8 Rajab 1091 (4 August 1680) a lease agreement (muqata'a) was signed
between Mahmud Bey ibn 'Uthman, the representative of 'Abd al­Karim Pasha,
the çorbaci in Damascus, and several sipahis in Jerusalem, in the presence of
two witnesses—'Abd al­Baqi the bölükbasi30 in Jerusalem, and Ibrahim ibn
Sharaf. The lessors are Ahmad ibn Darwish, legal guardian for the minor Hasan
Bey ibn 'Ali al­Asbaki (the Uzbek), Sulayman Bey al­Sari, and 'Iwad Bey, all
sipahis in the city of Jerusalem.

The above­mentioned sipahis transferred into the hands of the pasha's

representative a muqata'a comprising the yield of summer and winter crops,
sheep tax, honey tax, bad­i hava and all other taxes he is able to collect from the
villages of Bayt Sahur and Bayt Safafa in the timar held by the above­
mentioned minor, and from a specific part of the village of 'Ajjul, held jointly by
the sipahis 'Iwad Bey and Sulayman Bey. The lease is given for a period of
three years, from the beginning of 1091 until the end of 1093. The rent is 150
ghurosh, of which 50 ghuroh will be paid into the hands of the minor sipahi's
guardian, and the rest, 100 ghurosh, will be paid to the two other sipahis.31
 Page 125

This last record is a further example of how the arrangement became a

recognized fiscal practice in the late seventeenth century. Lease agreements
were referred to as muqata'a, implying that they are a continuation of the
government policy allocating fiefs to members of the governing elite. It is
recorded in the sijill as a legal transaction. The boundaries of the territory, the
exact rental period, the amount of money specified and the kinds of taxes to be
collected are explicitly referred to. Nowhere is there any clue to the fact that
the contract and all its contents, from the demarcation of the area's boundaries,
to most of the taxes mentioned, is completely illegal.

Leasing villages or their potential yield was not limited to timars. In fact,
timariots may have followed the practice of an older establishment—the waqf.
Both institutions, as was mentioned earlier, were based on the Islamic
separation between raqaba and tasarruf, but unlike timars, waqf institutions
were allowed to lease their possessions under certain conditions, and often did
so. This was an established practice meant to provide income for the waqf,
especially in times of economic hardship. Waqf supervisors leased houses,
shops and workshops in town, and villages or farms in rural areas. The rent
was used to acquire nonagricultural products, especially if the waqf included a
soup­kitchen or a madrasa, to pay debts, and even to provide for the day­to­
day administration of the waqf. The leasing of villages by waqf institutions was
also recorded in the sijill, although sometimes waqf administrators did not
adhere to rules of honest business:

At the beginning of 1033 (1623–24), Nasir Bashsha (beççe) 32 ibn Muhammad

arrived in court, representing Sulayman Aga, a servant of the Sublime Porte. He
leased from Muhammad Aga, supervisor of the waqf of Khasiki Sultan,33 the
whole village of Qaqun which belongs to the waqf. A contract was then signed,
leasing the village for three years, for a sum of 500 ghurosh a year. But on 17
Safar 1033 (10 December 1623), shortly after the signing of the agreement,
Sulayman Aga's son, Mustafa çavus came to court, accompanied by the said
supervisor of the waqf. Having been identified as the law requires, Mustafa told
the qadi that he had received from his father the income from the village (intifa'),
but to his astonishment he found out that the village was deserted by its
inhabitants. It appears they were terrorized by the former governor of Nabulus
andhad all run away. In light of this new evidence it was decided by mutual
consent to revoke the lease contract, and the money was returned to the
lessee.34
 Page 126

Waqf supervisors leasing a village did not hesitate to sign contracts with
anyone who could come up with the money or a suitable substitute. Villages
were frequently leased to ulema, rich merchants, or former waqf officials, to
sipahis, and even to the villagers themselves, in return for supplies and
services:
Muhammad Aga ibn 'Abdallah, çavus of the sublime porte and the current
supervisor of waqf al­'Imara al­'Amira (Khasiki Sultan waqf), has leased the
village of Jib al­Fukhkhar, in the vicinity of Jerusalem, to Muslih ibn Salih, 'Umar
ibn 'Umayra, Ibrahim ibn Isma'il and Barakat ibn 'isa, all of them sheikhs
(mashayikh) of the said village. They have leased it for themselves, and as
representatives of the rest of the people in the village. Part of [the taxes of] this
village belong to the above mentioned waqf, while another part belongs to the
waqf of al­Malik al­Mu'ayyad, but the said supervisor has presented a permit to
lease both parts. The lease includes winter and summer crops, olive and
vineyard tax and other taxes accruing to the two waqfs, all together estimated at
10,000 qit'a misriyya. 35 This sum was subtracted by Muhammad Aga from the
value of [work done by the villagers] cutting timber and carrying it to the waqf
daily, summer and winter. All together this is estimated at six hundred Jerusalem
qintars from the beginning of Muharram 1009, to the end of that year. The price
of this service is 9,000 qit'a Misriyya, on the basis of 15 qit'a per qintar. The
sheikhs all gave mutual guarantees for this.… The lessees paid [the rest of the
money] as required, and the lease was lawfully signed. Then the said supervisor
came to an agreement with the lessees that if during the year the villagers would
bring more than the amount of timber agreed upon, he would recompensate
them for it.36

The central government in Istanbul frowned upon some of these lease

contracts. Not infrequently such agreements involved embezzlement of funds
intended for the waqf. In a series of documents from 1642, the governor of
Damascus was instructed to punish the supervisor of a waqf in Hebron for
leasing parts of the waqf and putting the money in his own pocket.
A decree to the governor of Damascus, the vezir Ahmad Pasha, to the qadi of
Damascus, to the governor of Jerusalem as an arpalik, and to the qadi of
Jerusalem.

The governor of Damascus, the above­mentioned vezir, sent a letter to my

palace. After my former decree was sent, [the letter recounts] the waqf was
seized, and its action suspended. The supervizor
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and his clerks were arrested; an investigation was carried out; and it was
forbidden for those who took over the waqf's villages through lease contracts
to go on exploiting them. When the supervisor's accounts were checked, it was
discovered that he owed a sum of 3,600 ghurosh for the period of one year and
two months. He was therefore incarcerated in the citadel of Damascus, and his
son, Ja'far, pledged to pay the money.

The vezir informed us that he had sent a new supervisor to Jerusalem, and put a
stop to the further exploitation of villages by those who laid their hands on
them by lease (icare ile). He further requested that when the money is received
[from the former supervisor's son] it shall be expended for the waqf's vital
necessities. My sublime decree was therefore written.

I command that when my decree arrives you shall act accordingly. When the
waqf's money in the possession of the former supervisor is received, it should
be lawfully given to the waqf, and expended for the waqf's vital necessities. 37

Other documents in the same series refer to the illegal leasing of villages, the
profits of which were stolen by the supervisor, and to the steps taken to make
sure the incident does not repeat itself. But on the whole, the government
accepted the necessity of leasing waqf property, and was either oblivious to,
or turned a blind eye towards the leasing of timars. We may conclude
therefore that this special form of ''sublease" of villages and other rural areas
was a dominant feature of agrarian relations throughout the seventeenth
century. It preceded the iltizam, and in many respects pre­figures tax­farming.
Pressures of inflation and a stagnated economy enticed timariots to lease their
fiefs.

It may have come about as an interim stage of the shift from a tax system
based on payment in kind, to one based on money. Selling tons of wheat,
cotton, or olive oil for the right price was a demanding task. In an unstable
economy it required a special expertise which many timariots simply did not
possess. The task was further complicated by the rapidly growing burden of
state taxes. Tax collection became a continuous contest between producers
and fief­holders, and the latters preferred to reside in urban centers, leasing
their timars in exchange for a lump sum of money. Let someone else take care
of recalcitrant peasants, of collecting the harvest and of converting it into
money. Probably some sipahis, janissaries or even local notables, as may have
been the case, specialized in overseeing the villages and collecting taxes, while
others leased their estates and elected to invest the returns in commerce or in
the acquisition of immovable property.
 Page 128

This type of sublease, a local form of iltizam, was not directed by the central
government. Unlike state­controlled iltizam, it was characterized mainly by
leases of small holdings, usually one or several villages. Another difference lay
in the shorter time­spans of such leases. In many cases a village was leased for
a few years, and then returned to its former status as part of a waqf or timar
land. Only in rare cases was the rental period extended beyond a few years, to
resemble the ubiquitous tax­farming of later centuries. Still, this change in
structures of land tenure brought forth many of the ills later attributed to the
iltizam: mistreatment of cultivators, oppressive taxation, and abuse of land
resources. This is made evident by the many petitions sent by fallahin to the
Sublime Porte towards the end of the century, complaining of abuse by the
governing elite. 38

In its local version described above, the leasing of state land did not create
conditions for a massive takeover of the surplus by a localized elite. In other
words, notables, merchants, or other aspiring elite groups, could not become
large­scale tax farmers. Perhaps in the minds of local notables state land and
tax collection were still by and large the domain of the governing elite. In any
case, the formal connection between sipahis or waqf officials and the villagers
remained largely intact. Notables, it seems, hesitated to invest in tax­farming.
With few exeptions they did not tend to lease large estates. They preferred to
purchase land, and to invest in urban crafts.

The emerging pattern—sublease of small timars or parts of them—also

postponed the emergence of large farms, and market­oriented farming. On the
contrary, it split the former timar system into smaller parcels of land, and
added other varieties of land tenure and administration systems. The absence
of a clear system of agrarian relations and the lack of a well­defined group of
land holders that could direct production and meet demands halted the
movement towards peripheralization and European control of the economy.

We may assume that some of the timar holders improved their economic
status and filled their coffers, but on the whole their effort to privatize iqta' land
and bequeath it to their sons failed. Until the end of the century, and well into
the following century, timariots and zeamet holders still needed the
authorization of the central government to pass their fief onto their next of kin.
Sijill records dealing with such authorization suggest that it could be bought for
a sum of money lavished on officials in the capital:
At the end of Rajab 1091 (1680) a suit was filed by Dhib ibn Ishaq, guardian of
the minor Muhammd, son of Muhammad Aga, the former sipahi commander in
Jerusalem, against Isma'il ibn Rajab,
 Page 129

representative of the minor Hasan, son of the deceased sipahi 'Ali Bey al­
Asbaki (the Uzbek). The plaintiff claimed that Muhammad Aga, his protegé's
father, brought from Istanbul a berat authorizing the minor represented by the
defendant to take over his deceased father's timar. In order to obtain the
authorization he had to spend a sum of 120 ghurosh in Istanbul.

Before his death Muhammad Aga gave the berat to the defendant, telling him
that it cost 120 ghurosh, and subtracting 40 ghurosh as a present. They agreed
that the defendant should pay the rest of the sum—80 ghurosh—in three years'
time. Meanwhile Muhammad Aga died, and now the plaintiff claims the money
on behalf of Muhammad's son (who is also named Muhammad). 39

Paying for a berat was apparently a well­established norm, and inheriting the
fief did not require any special qualification or distinction. The potential heir to
the estate did not have to prove his valor or administrative skills. Still, the
quasi­formal act of going to Istanbul or Damascus, spending money and buying
presents for high officials, was enough to make it clear to all concerned that the
Ottoman government still had ultimate control of the land, and could allocate it
at its whim.40 In this capacity timar holders were always the state's servants,
and did not develop as an autonomous feudal institution. In order to insure a
safe future for their families they had to direct their efforts to other avenues of
land tenure, to which we shall now turn.

The Battle for Land Ownership

We have seen that although state­sponsored iltizam did not make much
headway in the seventeenth century, the former dominant system, that of the
timar and the waqf, changed considerably. Timar and waqf possessions
were farmed out on a local basis. On the other hand, this did not constitute a
shift towards privatization. Tax did not become rent. The battle for privatization
was not fought in the realm of the tasarruf, the usufruct. Instead it was the
gray area between the tasarruf and the raqaba, the ownership itself, that
provided the best chance for privatizing land.

Sometimes the emphasis in Ottomanist research on timar and iltizam

overshadows another point of interest in Ottoman systems of land tenure. Most
of the land, as Ömer Lutfi Barkan and Gabriel Baer have shown, formally
belonged to the state, or more specifically to the sultan himself. The sultan
could grant it, or confiscate it at will. From time to time the sultan decided to
change its designation, from timar to waqf, for instance. Rarely he (or his
servants) would replace the cultivators, sending them
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off to colonize a newly acquired province. But other than that, the sultan's
ownership remained in the realm of political or philosophical thought, having no
direct bearing on the ground.41

Sultanic land granted as timars or waqfs was left in the hands of its cultivators.
Officially they were allowed to till it in return for part of the crop, but in effect
they had a hold over their land. This hold was by no means unequivocal. It was
affected by many factors. First there was the type of land and its produce.
Since growing trees, for instance, was a long­term project, requiring several
years until they bore fruit, the state, in accordance with shari'a law, considered
them private property. By recognizing private ownership of trees, Ottoman law
recognized the cultivators' de facto ownership of the land where orchards,
groves and vineyards were concerned. Owners of orchards were allowed to
bequeath them, sell them or even to assign them as waqf. Fields or vegetable
gardens could not officially be considered the property of cultivators, but these
too were passed on by fathers to their sons and daughters, and sold inside the
village community. In some places where vegetables were grown among the
trees, for example, the definition was more problematic. Such definitions were
crucial in mountainous areas like Jerusalem, Safad, Hebron or Nabulus where
large fields or plantations were few, and orchards constituted the lion's share of
cultivated land. 42

Ottoman lawmakers deliberated definitions of ownership concerning fields and

orchards, and questions of taxation emanating from these definitions. Their
deliberations are reflected in the kanunnames, or legal codes, prepared
separately for each of the empire's provinces. A subsection of the kanunname
prepared for Damascus in 1548, indicates one of several potential problems:
For certain places where vineyards or orchards existed in state lands in the said
province, a kharaj tax was specified according to a certain index. Later the vines
in the vineyard, or the trees in the orchard whithered and died, and their land
was sown. If [their cultivators] now wish to pay taxes according to the old rate
by claiming "it is our property" (mül kümüzdür), they should not be allowed to
do so, since by prevailing custom the taxes to be collected from the villages
should be determined by a fixed ratio, according to the regulations.43

Thus, when the vines died, and the vineyard became a field, or when the
farmer failed to cultivate the land for several years, the land could no longer be
considered "private" property, and a higher amount of tax had to be paid. The
notion of private property, therefore, was much more supple and changeable
than in later years. It was defined by the uses of the land, and the definition
changed with the change in usage. This
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allowed cultivators to "increase" the level of ownership in the land by changing

its designation, and by planting trees. 44

Other reflections of the Ottoman difficulty in defining private property can be

found infatawa books of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The famous
sixteenth­century mufti, Seyhülislam Ebüssuud Efendi, the leading 'alim of his
day and a companion of Sultan Süleyman, was asked to define the categories
of mülk (Arabic milk—private property) and miri (state land). Although the
question itself indicates that definitions were problematic, his response, it
seems, is unequivocal:
Lands inside cities (sehirler içcinde olan yerler) are mülk. Their owners can
sell them, give them away as presents, or dedicate them as waqfs. When they
die, the whole area passes into the hands of their heirs. Miri lands are those
cultivated areas in villages, which each cultivator is allocated for his own use.
They cannot be sold, given away or dedicated as waqf. When [the cultivator]
dies, if he has sons they continue using the land. If not, the land is reassigned
to the sipahi's tapu.45

But even Ebüssuud's ownfatawa seem to question his simple definition of

mülk as referring to areas inside cities. "Qadis in the province of Rumeli," he
was asked, "grant documents of ownership (hüccet), and record in the sijill
authorizations for sale and purchase, pawning and mortgaging, exchange and
preemption, concerning lands which are now in the hands of the general
populace (reaya). Is this fact in line with the shari'a?"
It is contrary to the shari'a, [he replied]. These are now considered lands which
have been registered in the sipahis' tapu. Recording their sale and purchase in
the qadis' books is an error. It should be recorded in the following manner:
"Zeyd delegated the use of the land which was his usufruct to 'Amr, and took a
certain sum for vacating it [the term used isferagat , which also means selling].
Bekr, the sipahi, also took a certain tax, and gave [the fields] to 'Amr.46

In this and otherfatawa , Ebüssuud suggested a fictitious legal mechanism

which would allow people to own land for almost all practical purposes, while
formally maintaining that no sale occured. The fields are transferred from
Zeyd's possession to 'Amr's, and the timar holder, Bekr, also receives a sum
of money. (The names Zeyd, 'Amr and Bekr are common names used to give
theoretical examples in legal sources.) Since these questions of de facto
ownership did not matter to the timariot and, moreover, he had something to
gain from such transactions, it may be assumed that the sale and transfer of
land was even encouraged. In later times, as the sway of fief­holders over the
population diminished, this
 Page 132

kind of transaction was already a well­established norm, and the villagers did
not even request their permission.

In a series of questions posed to the famous mufti Khayr al­Din al­Ramli, who
lived in Gaza and Ramle in the first half of the seventeenth century, questions of
ownership appear to be a constant problem. It seems that such questions were
still not resolved, and that a certain tension existed between cultivators and the
state's agents:
Fallahin who possessed a tract of sultanic land which they have inherited for
several generations, have come into some difficulties and mortgaged their land
with their fellow villagers in return for a known sum of money, on condition that
they will get their land back when they return the money. Years later they
returned the sum owed, and the land [should have been] returned to their
possession. Now the villagers claim that the land belongs to them, and deny it
has ever been mortgaged. If the above is proven, is it possible to drive them off
the land?

Yes, [answers al­Ramli], they should be driven off the land because the
inheritors still have a right to it, on condition that they paid their debt in its
entirety. 47

In this case al­Ramli justifies the cultivators' claim to possession of the land by
a sort of preemption. In other cases his ruling is more in line with formal views
of land tenure. He is opposed, for instance, to the selling or leasing of timar
and waqf land by their cultivators, on the grounds that they themselves are
considered lessees, and are not allowed to sublet the property.48 But as usual
infatawa works, the questions are more indicative of prevailing customs and
moods than the answers. From the numerous questions dealing with such
issues addressed to al­Ramli, we may conclude that the definition of ownership
was complex and multifaceted. Any attempt to define it by shar'i and kanuni
definitions of milk, raqaba, tasarruf, waqf, miri or sultani is doomed to fail.
Very often cultivators sold sultani land to others, leased or mortgaged it, even
though according to shar'i definitions they did not own any of it. Many such
transactions were officially recorded by the state in the shar'i court. Other
deals were made by the parties themselves, with no state intervention, and
were brought to the majlis only when one party to the transaction brought
charges against the other party.

A glance at the sijills would indicate that selling orchards and vineyards was a
daily occurence. In Nabulus, where most of the area was covered by olive
trees, the majority of transactions involved olive groves. Records of sale
always indicated that this was "the seller's property, whose usufruct he
possessed until this sale" (ma huwa lahu wa­taht tasarrufihi ila hin sudur
 Page 133

hadha al­bay'). Unlike the procedure in Anatolia during the same period, in
Jerusalem or Nabulus sales deeds never mentioned the timar holder or the
waqf institution (sahib­i arz), and did not include a special payment for the
grant­holder. 49 One suit filed to the qadi's court in Nabulus in 1066 (1656),
sums up many characteristics of such sales deeds:
The woman Saliha bint Muhammad of the village of Naqura, identified for the
court by her husband, Fazi' ibn Qarqur, sues Ahmad ibn Salama of the village of
Bayt Lid. The defendant, also present in court, represents the pride of his peers
Bakr Bashsha ibn Zakariyya.

The plaintiff claimed that the defendant and his representative both took
possession of one half—12 qirat—of the whole, 24 qirat50 —of an olive grove,
the roots of which are planted in the land of Hallat Marj, within the boundaries
of Bayt Lid; an area undeniably recognized by both parties, and well known in
its region, which makes its boundary definition here unnecessary. The plaintiff
submits that this is her own property, and demands that the defendant and his
representative vacate the said share of the grove.

Asked whether it was his property, the defendant claimed that he had bought
this half of the olive grove from Fazi' ibn Qarqur, the plaintiffs husband, and
paid him 30 ghurosh for it. At this stage the said Fazi' retorted, "This sale I made
is cancelled (mawqof) because the share I sold to Ahmad ibn Salama, the
representative, is part of my wife's property (milk min amlak zawjati), and she
did not sell it. The other part of the grove which is in my possession (al­Jari fi
milki) is mortgaged to Nasir ibn Zuhayr." In saying this he denied the actual
sale, but the said Ahmad, the defendant, did not accept his words, and said he
has shar'i proof that Fazi' sold him his own share, and it is in fact the other half,
which belongs to his wife, that was mortgaged. He asked the qadi's permission
to leave in order to obtain that proof.

Having obtained permission he left and came back at a later date with two
witnesses. They both testified, in front of the woman, the said Saliha, and in
front of Salama, son of the said Fazi', that Fazi' himself said to them during the
transaction: "Bear testimony that I sold my share, comprising half of the olive
trees, to Ahmad ibn Salama." Thus they provided ample shar'i proof. In
consequence the qadi forbade the woman Saliha and the said Salama ibn fazi'
from objecting with no legal cause to the ownership of Ahmad the said
representative, and notified them that the olive grove is now part of the
aforementioned Bakr Bashsha's possessions. All this was
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proven according to the shari'a, and registered in mid Dhu al­Qa'da 1066. 51

In Jerusalem orchards and groves were of a more varied nature. The vague
description of their contents in many sales records may imply that some of
these were not strictly arboreal plantations. Some of the properties sold may
have included vegetable gardens or fields, where trees were scattered. It is
interesting to note that in al­Ramli'sfatawa , cotton is referred to as "cotton
trees" (shajar qutn), perhaps an indication of the different way the term 'trees'
was used at the time. By describing the land sold as an orchard, it would have
been easier to claim that it was private property, and to register the sale. Such
cases were usually recorded in the sijill in the formal and elaborate language of
business transactions, reproduced here with some ommissions:
Salih ibn Salah al­Din, Mansur ibn Nasir and 'Awda ibn Shahada, all inhabitants
of the village of Lifta in the vicinity of Jerusalem, buy with their own money, for
themselves, in equal parts between them, from Badran, son of the deceased Hajj
Hasan al­Tanbugha, who is a legal representative of the sisters Safiyya and
Alfiyya, daughters of the deceased Hajj Amhad al­Saydawi…that which
belongs to his authorizers (the sisters) in equal parts between them, and
constitutes part of their property, which they have received as part of their
inheritance from their father, and has remained in their possession until the
execution of this sale. [The property in question includes] all of the orchard
which consists of vines, figs, olives, apricots and more, the roots of which are
planted in the vineyard known as Karm al­Saydawi in the land of Al­Sarara,
including half of the structure (qasr) and the water cistern in the said vineyard,
owned in partnership with Musa al­Ashram. The boundaries of the said
vineyard are: on the south side, the main road; to the east, the part owned by
the said Musa al­Ashram and beyond it a vineyard owned by the heirs of the
deceased Sheikh 'Abd al­Jawwad al­'Asali; to the north, the vineyard of Abi al­
Khayr which is in the hands of the buyers; and to the west the main road and
beyond it the said vineyard. [The sale includes] all the rights to the property.…
The price is 40 ghurosh, paid in full to the said representative by the said
buyers.52

Other records in the sijill indicate that some sort of private land ownership
was considered even by the Ottoman authorities as the natural state of affairs:
On 19 Rajab 1078 (2 January 1668) Sheikh 'Ubayd ibn Muhammad from the
village of Jaljulya in [the subdistrict of] Jabal Nabulus arrived
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in court, and presented to the qadi an imperial decree dated Rabi' awwal 1077
(September 1666). According to the decree, the said Sheikh 'Ubayd, and his
friend, Sheikh Muhammad, complained to the authorities that although they
possess no land or taxable property in the village, its inhabitants harass them,
demanding that they pay their share of special taxes ('awarid wa­takalif). The
decree orders the qadi to look at the matter, and if indeed the petitioners
possess no land or property in the village, they should not be forced to pay
taxes. If any of the inhabitants of the village goes on annoying them, his name
should be passed on to the palace. Sheikh 'Ubayd requested that this decree be
recorded in the sijill. The qadi consented, and instructed the inhabitants of the
sheikh's village to refrain from harassing him and his friend. 53

There are several conclusions to be drawn from these documents. Primarily,

ownership of land, whether de facto or de jure, was very widespread. It was
not confined to towns, and was practically ubiquitous. This fact can also be
gleaned from descriptions of the boundaries of sold land. In almost every case
the plots of land adjacent to the one sold were also registered as owned by
individuals—a notable from the city, a fallah from another village or the
daughter of a local inhabitant. People would sell their land, bequeath it,
mortgage it or pawn it, with the possible exception of consecrating it as a waqf
(as this would be a long­term commitment unacceptable to the authorities).

Another interesting conclusion refers to the acquisition of land by local notables

and members of the governing elite. Governors, officers, ümera and their
decendants, ulema, rich merchants and ashraf, all bought landed property in
great quantities. Bequests of governors or ulema registered in the sijill
frequently include large tracts of private land, indicating the process whereby a
group of notables consolidated economic power in the seventeenth century. It
also traces the process of enrichment and localization of the ethnically foreign
governing elite, and its assimilation into local society. This process was not
based on the iltizam, or on the privatization of timars. It was based, instead,
on the acquisition of sultani land turned private. Even when their political
power was destroyed at the beginning of the eighteenth century, these families
still retained most of their landed assets, providing a basis for future
development.

Agrarian Relations and the Rise of a Local Notablity

In her book on towns in Anatolia, following in the footsteps of Ömer Lutfi

Barkan, Suraya Faroqhi claims that in the course of the seventeenth century
 Page 136

the importance of private ownership rose considerably in Anatolia, and that

miri lands were more and more frequently treated as private property:
The expression bey (sale), which should not have been used at all with respect
to miri lands, began to find its way into the documents. As the kadis were
trained in the seriat and therefore mainly accustomed to dealing with the legal
problems presented by freehold property, fields that could be sold might in the
long run have come to be regarded as mül k. 54

However, according to Faroqhi, the meaning of mülk (milk) was uniting the
raqaba or actual ownership, with the tasarruf. In the district of Jerusalem and
in neighboring districts, however, the definition of a property as milk simply
meant that the words raqaba and tasarruf themselves came to acquire a
different meaning. Even though the inhabitants of the district knew well that the
land was still sultani, or even waqf, they considered it private, in the sense that
parts of the raqaba, and parts of the tasarruf, were theirs to dispose of as
they wished. Yet they went on paying taxes and impositions to the sipahi or
the supervisor of the waqf, they still kept a very small part of the income, and
were dispossessed from time to time. In this respect private ownership
mattered very little. Only in the highest echelons of society, where most people
paid no taxes, did raqaba and tasarruf really unite.

Agrarian relations in the district of Jerusalem during the same period were,
thus, more complex than a century earlier. Land ownership, which Cuno rightly
sees as a "shared control," or "shared ownership," was constructed of several
layers of Muslim law, ''secular" Ottoman law, pre­Ottoman custom and an
elusive local ingredient that found its way into the legal documents, even though
it did establish itself in legal codes.

In principle the sultan owned most of the land. At his behest he could have
transferred cultivators from their plots of land, settled others in them, and
allocated the tasarruf to whomever he wished. Another limited layer of
ownership belonged to the holders of timars and other iqta's, and to waqf
institutions—those who appropriated most of the economic surplus, and had a
say in sale transactions and ownership disputes. Their mandate did not include
any direct rights of ownership of the land, but they could have purchased land,
and did so extensively. Finally, the cultivators, the fallahin themselves, had a
share of the ownership, stretching from officially recognized freehold, to a
temporary hold on the land, subject to its cultivation.

In the seventeenth century the whole region could be described as a battlefield

between all these layers of ownership. The state sought to maintain its ultimate
ownership, and the right to appropriate surplus and
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reallocate it at will. Its main goal was to prevent its slipping into the hands of
the localized provincial governing elite. This was done by frequent transfers of
officials from one district to another; by confiscation of property from
rebellious timar holders; by a close supervision of waqfs; by fighting against
unlimited subletting of timars and waqfs; and, later on, by replacing the timar
system with the state's own version of sublease—the iltizam.

Members of the Ottoman­local governing elite tried to retain and even increase
their portion of the surplus and their control of land. They strove to bequeath
estates to their offspring, and to collect more taxes. Another track, which
proved more efficacious, was the purchase of large quantities of landed assets.
Exempt from most taxes, and unhampered by their own bullying of the reaya,
they enjoyed all the benefits and suffered few of the shortcomings of this
system. Many would sublet their own timars and use the money to amass land
and city­based property. 55 This process was detrimental to the rest of the
unprivileged populace. It may be assumed that in lands bought by members of
the elite fallahin worked as hired hands and lost the small measure of control
they once held over their land. On the other hand, the gradual decline in tax­
paying area, resulting from the acquisition of land by the elite, increased the
already heavy load of taxes on the reaya, whose own dwindling income made
the purchase of more land almost impossible.

Members of the local notable elite also bought land, with money earned from
other economic activities and from state­sponsored wages. Like their rival
peers in the governing elite, they sought to increase their control over the land,
and to pry away from the state, the sultan, and the cultivators their respective
parts of the ownership. Being senior ulema and ashraf, or having purchased
military commissions, many local notables had the advantage of tax exemption.

A classic example of this process is Khayr al­Din al­Ramli himself. During his
lifetime the famous mufti acquired enormous quantities of land. His biography,
written by one of his disciples, mentions that he had also planted more than a
hundred thousand trees on these lands(!). By the mid­seventeenth century he
was the biggest landowner in Ramla, his native town, and his income was
estimated at more than one hundred ghurosh a day.56 Several years after his
death, a case was brought to the majlis in Jerusalem: The supervisor of the
Khasikiyya waqf told the qadi that Khayr al­Din's son, Najm al­Din, had
inherited land, houses, flour mills and soap factories from his father. Much of
this property was located in the village of Ludd (Lod), which forms part of the
domains of the waqf. The supervisor complained that Najm al­Din does not
pay special taxes which were imposed on the waqf. Following a long debate
about the nature of these assets, the qadi decided that Najm al­Din should not
pay taxes
 Page 138

since this was the custom in his father's time, and precedents should be
respected. 57 Thus Khayr al­Din and his heirs, like many other notables,
enjoyed both the right to purchase land, and at least some tax exemption on
the acquired property.

The last group, the cultivators themselves, fought to preserve what ownership
rights they still had. This is evident from their insistence on recording
transactions in the sijill, from their frequent requests forfatwa s on questions of
land and ownership, and even from complaints to the Sublime Porte in
Istanbul. In the course of the century they managed to retain their share of the
ownership, but on the whole the portion of landed assets owned by villagers
gradually decreased. Heavy taxation and cruel treatment often forced the
fallahin off their own land, and compelled them to relinquish their claim to land
and property.

In its silent struggle against the provincial elite, the government managed to
prevent the conversion of iqta' from tax to rent, from state ownership to total
private ownership. In this struggle to prevent privatization, the central
government found a staunch ally in the local cultivators. Both parties—the
sultan and the fallahin—strove to keep their part of the ownership, and their
joint actions, uncoordinated though they were, prevented the locally based
governing elite from gaining the upper hand. We have no way of knowing
whether the central government anticipated this sort of cooperation from its
humble subjects, but the vezirs in Istanbul may have understood the advantages
in turning a blind eye to land transactions as a means of curtailing the power of
local governors. The unstated yet very real principle of shared ownership stood
fast against attempts to destroy it by the governing elite. Even when parts of
timars were bought by berat holders or other officials, the land did not lose its
official status as state land. A timariot could buy a layer of ownership in a tract
of land, but was prevented from uniting his rights as an estate holder with his
rights as a landowner to produce full ownership.

Still, the same principle allowed members of that group to gradually acquire
landed property on a smaller scale, and expand their economic base. This
process went on mainly in the first half of the seventeenth century, reaching its
apex in the 1650s and 1660s. A few years later, however, when the local
dynasties were decapitated, entire chains of patronage and clientship
collapsed. Remnants of this local elite, for the most part replaced by new
Istanbul appointments, lost most of their landed assets, which reverted to the
state.

For a while, the real winners were local notables. Unlike the governing elite,
they were not considered dangerous opponents by the state, and no battle was
waged against them. Other groups—the governing elite, and even the
cultivators themselves—failed to recognize the threat inherent
 Page 139

in the local notables, and in fact saw them as allies. In the course of the period
they amassed property and power with no apparent opposition, and emerged
at the end of the century as a dominant local political force to be reckoned
with. When their vested interests were jeopardized at the turn of the century by
a new, foreign governor attempting to impose a new order of taxation, the
result was revolt, led by the ulema and notables of Jerusalem. This revolt was
an agrarian setback for the notables from which they did not recover until later
in the eighteenth century.
 Index

  
 Page 141

Chapter 6
An Economy in Transition
Commerce, Crafts and Taxation
The very detailed taxation surveys made by order of the sultan during the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries supply an abundance of data on Ottoman
provinces. In spite of their many shortcomings and inconsistencies, these
tahrirs supply historians of Ottoman economy with information of a kind
known only in modern bureaucratic states and having almost no parallel in the
premodern Islamic world. Balanced by information in sijill registers of local
courts and in other sources, depictions of the economy in Palestine, as in many
other regions, can be lucid and sharp. 1

In the second century of Ottoman rule in Palestine, however, this meticulous

system of control changed considerably. The survey routine declined before
the end of the sixteenth century, and in the ensuing period was all but forgotten.
The reasons had to do with changes in the structure of government, with the
internal balance of the governing elite, with different systems of agriculture and
agrarian relations, and even with the continuous decline in the empire's
population. We therefore have no source comparable to the tahrir surveys for
the seventeenth century, and have no way of gathering accurate statistical data.
To compensate for this shortage, we must turn to other sources. Our main
venue for this period is still the shari'a court. Part of the court's duties was
control of the fiscal system, registration of tax payments, sale and purchase of
land and movables, internal trade of all kind, and prices of basic foodstuffs.
Another important source is the archives of European states, ports and trading
companies. Prominent among them during the seventeenth century was the
chamber
 Page 142

of commerce at Marseilles, which conducted the main volume of French trade

with the eastern Mediterranean. Another source, of lesser importance for this
region, is the English Levant company. Ottoman archives supply information
mainly about agrarian relations and the initial demands of taxation. None of
these sources can provide a clear quantitative answer to the main problems of
Ottoman economic history at the time, namely the questions of decline,
decentralization, and the process known as peripheralization in the rapidly
expanding world economy. But all these sources taken together, each in its
own domain, may shed some light on the issues discussed in this chapter.

For the Ottoman economic mind, the basic unit of taxation at the time of the
conquest was a household, usually headed by an adult male. The types of
social structure implied by the term ranged from the nuclear (sometimes
polygamous) family to an extended one with a single recognized head. Tahrir
surveys assessed the amount of taxes to be collected from each unit's revenues
accrued in agriculture, industry and commerce. For cultivated lands, taxation
assessment was based on the çiftlik system. Çiftlik (literally, "pair"), a Turkish
word of Persian origin, referred to the amount of land that could be cultivated
using one pair of oxen. It was assumed that each village household had at least
one such pair at its disposal, and therefore was capable of tilling a çiftlik. In
towns and cities other yardsticks were used to measure the household's
productive capabilities.

There were many differences between provinces in regard to the fertility of the
land, climate, average annual rainfall, traditions of agriculture and industry, and
even pre­Ottoman taxation systems. All these considerations had an influence
on Ottoman taxation policies, and were integrated into regional
kanunnames—official collections of sultanic edicts. In many cases
kanunnames which contained taxation laws concerning a certain province
were to be found in the preamble to tahrir surveys of that province.
Appraisals in the surveys were used by tax collectors to determine the
estimated yield of each taxation unit, and to allocate the tax thus assessed
according to the needs of the treasury. At the same time these appraisals were
used to determine the size and value of timars, the main source of income for
the sipahi cavalry and other high­ranking officials in the provinces. Such
estimates served as a basis for allocation of timars to deserving officers and
officials. 2

Until the 1590s the Ottoman government managed to retain its hold over the
economy in the district of Jerusalem. It avoided complete privatization of
timars and waqf endowments, maintained its legal ownership of lands
cultivated by villagers, and stressed its right to define taxes, and to receive and
allocate the economic surplus. The economy was centralized. Important
economic matters were decided in Istanbul and later
 Page 143

communicated to the provinces. Within this rigid system there was always
some leeway as a result of structural constraints—distance, faltering
communications, or local forces vying for a part of the action. Still, tahrir
surveys supplied a powerful and reliable means of economic control. Although
they provided only approximations of produce, the surveys enabled treasury
officials in the imperial center to assess with reasonable accuracy the income
expected from a province, to check whether a governor was filling his pockets
with too much of the government's money, and to investigate the petitions of
villagers overburdened by the local government's greed.

At the end of the sixteenth century the surveys were neglected. One reason
was the rapid decline of the sipahis. The provincial cavalry, reluctant to adapt
to the use of firearms and modern military tactics, was now useless as a military
force. It was soon replaced on the battlefield by other forces, better adapted
to modern warfare. Unlike their predecessors, these new military units did not
receive timars. Their income was based on salaries and bonuses, sometimes
on a temporary basis. Since the determination and allocation of timars was an
important reason for conducting the surveys, the decline of the timar system
subtracted from the overall importance of the survey. Coupled with rapid
changes in agrarian relations, and probably with a visible decline in the
population which led to smaller tax yields, there was little incentive to conduct
new surveys. 3

When the tahrir system was abandoned, the Ottoman government lost a tool
of immeasurable value. The gap between the old survey data and changing
conditions on the ground expanded rapidly. The ability of the sultan and his
servants to control and assess taxation diminished, and central control over the
provinces decreased in direct proportion. Timars and waqfs, still the main
agrarian systems, became more decentralized. Sipahis and local officials often
leased lands and property in their trust to others. Decentralization found even
more acute expression in matters concerning the monetary system, taxation
regulations, and internal and foreign trade.4

Officially the akçe, sometimes called osmani ('uthmani), and known in the
West as asper, was still legal tender in the seventeenth century, but it has long
ago ceased to be in circulation. Its only use was as "money of account,"
symbolic units of money to be added and subtracted by treasury clerks.5 The
majority of business transactions in Jerusalem and Nabulus were conducted
using foreign currency. The most common coin was the Dutch löwen rikstaler,
a gold coin depicting a lion's head, referred to as arslanli kurus in Turkish, or
as ghurosh asadi in Arabic. Use of this coin was so widespread that in sijill
documents it was simply called ghurosh, and no other adjective was needed.
It was often used as a basic currency unit that other coins were measured
against. Slightly less popular
 Page 144

was the Spanish real, ghurosh rial in Arabic. The real, slightly more expensive
than the rikstaler, was one of the major import items from Spain into the
Ottoman Empire. These coins also served to determine the value of Ottoman
currency. The main Ottoman coin used in Palestine at the time was the
Egyptian qit'a, a version of the Ottomanpara minted in Cairo. The
Damascenepara —qit'a shamiyya—was also used frequently. Its value was
slightly lower than that of its Egyptian counterpart. At mid­century one
ghurosh asadi (Dutch rikstaler) was worth 40 qit'a shamiyya or 30 qit'a
misriyya. 6

Currency values were determined by the content of precious metal (gold or

silver). The use of so many kinds of currency, frequently with no clear
indication about their actual value, made trade and taxation difficult. From time
to time, mainly in the first years of the century, new exchange rates were
announced for different coins. A typical record of the court summons the
commander of the citadel to receive his soldiers' pay, and to formally declare
that he received "two hundred ghurosh, worth 60 qit'a shamiyya each, and
25 sultani, worth 108 qit'a shamiyya each."7 In other court records the local
community requested the qadi's intervention in order to determine exchange
rates:
Several people were summoned by our noble qadi. [They included] Husam al­
Din efendi: Sheikh 'Inayat Allah al­Ghazzi, the preacher (khatib) Sheikh 'Abd al­
Haqq ibn Jama'a, Sheikh Yahya ibn Qadi al­Salt, the teacher (mudarris) Sheikh
Radiy al­Din ibn Abi al­Lutf, and the Sufi master Sheikh Shafi'i al­Ghazzi. And of
the merchants the khawaja8 Muhammad al­'Asali, head of the merchants (ra'is
al­tujjar), khawaja Muhammad ibn Musa al­Duhayna, khawaja Ahmad ibn
'Abd al­Qudus, the mu'allim9 Ahmad, the muhtasib10 in Jerusalem, the
mu'allim Yusuf, head of the market (bazar bashi), Sheikh 'Abd al­Qadir, the
deputy inspector of the waqf, and others from the market.

When they all gathered the qadi asked them about the exchange rate in
Jerusalem, and the reasons for its confusion. Those present consulted on the
matter and came to the conclusion that the value of one golden dinar, whether
sharifi, Ibrahimi or Venetian, should be 48 Egyptian qit'a, and [the exchange
rate of] a true ghurosh should be 30 qit'a, and [the exchange rate of] other types
of ghurosh coins should be 30 qit'a, so that the value of the dinar is 1.5 times
the value of the ghurosh.

In later years fluctuations in the value of coins were less extreme, and the
impressive forum convened by the qadi did not have much reason to assemble
again. The ratio between the foreign ghurosh and the local
 Page 145

Egyptian qit'a remained stable throughout the century, and so did other
exchange rates. The galloping rate of inflation characteristic of the late sixteenth
century seems to have slowed down considerably, and to have reached a
lower steady state. 12

Towards the end of the century, the Ottomans minted their own kurus coin,
with a smaller content of gold than its European counterparts. The introduction
of this new coin did not reduce the use of European currency in circulation. It
was used by all social groups, from the governor and his retinue, through the
sipahis and janissaries, to the ulema, the merchants, the villagers and the
bedouin. It was used in commercial transactions, loaned, and paid as bride­
price. It was even collected as taxes, although the official taxation currency
was still the akçe. In the last decades of the century, the use of Egyptian and
Damascenepara coins diminished, and foreign currency became even more
popular.

Western European currency was popular for several reasons. The sixteenth
century balance of trade with Europe was based on the import of (originally
American and African) gold and silver into the Ottoman Empire, in return for
raw materials and finished products. Most of the metal came in the form of
coins minted in Europe. These rapidly became popular as a dependable kind
of currency with a stable ratio of pure gold or silver to base metal. Later on,
when the central government's ability to influence exchange rates and money
markets diminished, Europe became the only reliable source for currency. The
imperial divan succumbed to the pressures of the market, and allowed the use
of foreign currency inside its own fiscal and monetary systems for payments,
taxes and wages. In addition to losing an important symbol of sovereignty, this
capitulation signifies a conscious decision on the part of the Ottoman
government to give up trying to control the money market and the economy.
Such loss of control was also manifest in other domains of the economy.3

Decentralization of Taxation

In its Syrian­Palestinian version, Ottoman taxation combined a Mamluk

heritage, which reached its final form at the time of Sultan Qayitbay,14 with
several Ottoman modifications and ideas from other provinces. In 1517, the
Ottomans left the Mamluk system almost intact, and introduced only a few
changes, intended primarily to improve tax collection and to help integrate the
new provinces into the Ottoman network. In the course of the first century of
Ottoman rule, however, this relatively simple system became complex and
cumbersome. The central government itself added a patchwork of new taxes,
inconsistent with the old ones, until the principles guiding it were forgotten and
the basic pattern was completely lost.
 Page 146

The principle at the base of the initial taxation system was the collection of a
proportional tax from all tax­paying populations. The dividing line between
those who paid taxes and those who did not was almost identical to that which
separated the reaya from the askeri. The estimated income of taxpayers was
recorded in tapu­tahrir registers, and each family was supposed to pay its
taxes in accordance with the estimate. The system was not progressive. It did
not take into account the relative poverty, the different income or the inherited
property of each family, or its ability to pay the required tax. But the average
standard of living in the area and the potential yield of the land were taken into
consideration. Tahrir registers set a lower tax rate for less fertile land, or
where problems of irrigation did not permit intensive farming. Different rates
were set for different kinds of olive trees, for wheat and barley, and for cattle,
in accordance with their various market values. 15

Rates were also fixed for industry and trade activities, in accordance with
estimated gains. Some of these taxes were collected by the muhtasib and his
adjutants directly from merchants and craftsmen in the market. In villages the
person responsible for coordinating tax collection was the village headman, in
the sixteenth century most often referred to as ra'is al­fallahin . In later
centuries the title used in court records was mutakallim (speaker,
representative), usually in the plural, mutakallimin, perhaps suggesting some
devaluation in the status of village headmen. The way taxes were divided inside
the village was of no consequence to the authorities. Village headmen were
required to collect the tax in money or in kind, and deliver it to the city. In
some areas of Palestine this encouraged the system known as musha', which
entailed a revolving responsibility for cultivation of the village's plots of land.
This system was not very widespread in the district of Jerusalem at the time,
and is very rarely referred to in sijill records. Much of the land in the district
quietly slipped into quasi­private ownership, with or without official
approval.16

As the revenues of the central government dwindled at the end of the sixteenth
century, a new excise was levied. The avariz (or 'awarid in Arabic) was first
described as a special tax levied only when Ottoman subjects were required to
lend a hand in anticipation of a new campaign against the infidels. But since the
empire was very often in the midst of a war against one or more of its many
enemies, this special levy soon became a regular tax, paid every year. The
avariz system, as McGowan has shown, competed for some time with the
iltizam as the taxation system intended to replace the timar, and even gained
precedence over it for a while. This tendency is reflected in imperial rescripts
and sijill records which, from the middle of the seventeenth century,
increasingly mention avariz taxes side by side with the old taxation systems.17
 Page 147

Ignoring the inherent logic of the established taxation system, the government
now decided that new avariz taxes are to be levied from the district as a
whole, and not from each household separately. Inside the district the
governors and their henchmen allotted the burden, somewhat arbitrarily, to
villagers and to other revenue­producing sectors. The records show that
avariz were levied on the majority of the district's population, including villages
that formerly paid their taxes to waqf institutions exclusively. As current
government policy dictated, the new taxes collected in the districts of Palestine
were often transferred directly to the Yerliyya janissaries of Damascus. 18
Several imperial rescripts sent from Istanbul to Jerusalem quote petitions sent
by Yerliyya commanders complaining that the avariz levied in Jerusalem did
not find their way to the Damascus garrison. Instead, it appears, the money
was appropriated by the imperial treasury to finance campaigns elsewhere. But
whether it went to Istanbul or Damascus made little difference to the dwindling
population of the region, forced to shoulder yet another tax.

New excises were also imposed on the sipahis themselves. By the early
seventeenth century the central government considered the sipahis more a
nuisance than an advantage, although it was unable to rid itself of the timar
system altogether. Instead, it attempted to minimize the sipahis' revenue from
timar estates by imposing substantial bedel fines (badal in Arabic), to be
collected whenever the sipahis failed to join the ranks of the imperial army in
one of its many campaigns. Other taxes, referred to by the general term tekalif
(Arabic takalif, literally, ''expenses, impositions") were added soon, and the
military personnel stationed in the area were also required to pay them from
time to time. The sipahis, for their part, did not hesitate to lift the added
burden off their shoulders and transfer it to those of the reaya. Sometimes they
even used the new taxes as an excuse to extract a bit on the side for
themselves. Firmans sent from the capital to the provinces attest to the
government's dismay at such injustice:
Edict to our lord Mustafa, qadi of noble Jerusalem, may his virtues be plentiful.
A letter was sent to my palace, [according to which] the ulema, sheikhs and
Sufis (fuqara ') of Jerusalem came to the shari'a court [and testified that] the
timars and zeamets belonging to timariots in the district of Jerusalem are of
stony ground and poor of yield. Apart from the fact that the [sipahis]
themselves are poor, their lands are surrounded by bedouin, and they are
charged with the duty of guiding the pilgrims safely and securely to visit [the
gravesites of] the honorable Ibrahim Khalil al­Rahman (Hebron) and the
honorable Musa Kalim Allah (Nabi Musa) may the best prayers and the most
perfect peace be upon them and upon our prophet.
 Page 148

In return for their efforts they were given permission to pay bedel and tekalif as
a substitute for their absence from battlefields this year, as were all other
sipahis in the province of Damascus. But in view of their aforementioned
predicament, the timar and zeamet holders in the district of Jerusalem requested
total exemption from the war toll (sefer teklifi).

Therefore I have written my noble firman to instruct you, the qadi, to look into
the matter and to confirm that bread is indeed in short supply in the timars and
zeamets of Jerusalem. If that is the case, see that the [timariots] are exempted
from payment as of this year, 1103 (1695), on condition that the holders of
zeamets and timars continue to lead the Muslim pilgrims safely to their
destinations. 19

It seems improbable that the local leaders of Jerusalem's religious and lay
communities, who petitioned the sultan to exempt timar holders from payment
of the special taxes, did so just out of pity for their poor colleagues in the
governing elite. A more plausible explanation would suggest that they knew, as
did everyone else, that the fief­holders would pass the yoke of payment on to
the seemingly bottomless pit that absorbed all previous demands for heavier
taxation—the tax­paying reaya. The double gain of the timariots thus became
the double loss of the rest of the population. The sipahis were not required to
join the increasingly dangerous military adventures of the Ottoman Empire, nor
did they pay a fine for this evasion. The reaya, on the other hand, had no
refuge from their landlords even in times of war, and on top of this were forced
to pay the indemnity as well. The insistence on checking whether the district is
as poor as the petition claims it to be, and if so, authorize exemption, seems to
imply that the decision taken by the authorities in Istanbul stemmed from
awareness of this problem.

This, then, may have been the course of events that led to a disintegration of
the coherent structure at the base of the sixteenth­century Ottoman taxation
system. Alongside the traditional taxes assessed according to output capacity,
other payments were imposed by the central government, including bedel and
avariz. At the same time the old system of economic control, based on tahrir
surveys, ceased to supply basic data for decision­makers. Taxation was
decentralized, and central control over tax collection systems weakened. New
taxes, incompatible with the old ones, were imposed by local governors and
timar holders. The people of the region failed to perceive the logic in the new
system, lost their faith in it, and began to see it for what it was—an arbitrary
pattern of taxation, devoid of any social logic, striving mercilessly to exploit
them.
 Page 149

Exploitation was not unknown in the previous century, but what was then
treated as an exception, now became an established norm. Local traditions of
hospitality, expressed in lavish banquets and expensive gifts for honored guests
now became a tax, to be paid on a regular basis. Often called selamlik 20 or
musahara,21 these taxes infuriated the reaya, helpless in the face of such
exploitation. At the beginning of the century feeble attempts were made to hold
this tendency in check, as a firman of 1606 recounts:
An edict to the governor and qadi of Damascus, to the governors of districts in
the province of Damascus, and to qadis in these districts.

The inhabitants of the province have sent a petition to my royal council. In the
past, [they claim,] the province governor, the district governors and the qadis
have accepted their allocated revenue from crops, taxes and bad­i hava,22 and
treated their subjects in a just and honest manner. Now, for the first time, they
are not content with the revenue from taxes, crops and other sources
sanctioned by the seriat, the kanun and the defter.23 Several hundred officers
(subasis) raided poor subjects, seized their food, and imposed new (bid'at) taxes
named selamlik and piyade .

Let it be known that I am not content with any sort of exploitation and
harassment of my blameless reaya. I have therefore published my noble edict
instructing you to remove all these new blasphemous inventions. I have
ordered that when the firman arrives it is to be legally copied [into the sijill] and
you, the governors of the province and the district, are to cease at once sending
horse­riding officers and to stop collecting the selamlik and piyade from my
subjects.24

Efforts to curb the rapidly growing tendency to invent new taxes failed
altogether. The central government kept trying to compel local governors to get
back in line and stop collecting what came to be known as "governing elite
impositions" (takalif ahl al­'urf). In contrast to formal government taxes, these
new local ones were imposed on populations formerly exempted from
payment, among them villagers of ashraf and sadat families. In the second half
of the century increased taxation pressures kindled feelings of anger and
hostility among the reaya.

An edict of 1657 records a complaint sent by the inhabitants of a village in the

district of Jerusalem. Even though they had always paid their dues on time as
requested, the villagers complained, the governors of the province and the
district, and others of the governing elite (mirmiran ve mirliva ve sair ehl­i
örf taifesi) have imposed new taxes on them, unsanctioned by royal edict.
Among the many taxes mentioned in the complaint
 Page 150

were mufill (uncultivated land), mecani (harvested fruit?), yemek (food),

kabol (reception?), kozu (sheep), bal (honey), bag (orchards), arpa (barley),
cemali (or deve, camels), at (horses), sud (profit?), odun (firewood) and
tavuk (poultry). Other taxes were nefl­i paha (payment by "voluntary" work),
kaftan paha (payment for robe), küçük (children), zor (need or compulsion,
or perhaps zevr, visit), selamiye (selamlik), hak tarik (road toll) and ziyafet
akçesi (forged coins, or entertainment, banquet). 25

The edict ends with an order to stop this reprehensible conduct of officers and
governors, but even the clerk who composed the firman knew, it seems, that
these were "words in the wind" as the local Arab saying goes. Governors and
their henchmen ignored such edicts, and went on inventing new taxes. The
central government finally gave in and allowed these decentralizing tendencies
to take root in the provinces. This attitude can also be discerned in the
increasing tendency to allocate official taxes collected in the district in a "closed
circuit," to sectors in the province itself, sometimes within the district's borders.
As with other such arrangements, this was not an entirely new idea. Ever since
the conquest of the Fertile Crescent, much of the money collected in the region
was allocated to specific goals in the region itself. In the sixteenth­century
district of Jerusalem this was indeed the rule, not the exception. The greater
part of the revenue was allocated for use inside the district: to royal waqf
institutions, to timar and zeamet holders, and to other official bodies.

This financial arrangement—a direct link between payer and receiver within the
confines of the province—became ubiquitous in the following century,
spreading in ever widening circles. One such example, the payment of avariz
collected in Palestine toyerliyya battalions in Damascus, was discussed
above. Other examples are the ihtisab taxes, collected in Jerusalem's markets,
which were allocated to the soldiers stationed in the district's citadels and
fortresses; the custom duties levied at Jaffa's harbor, dedicated to preparation
of the pilgrimage caravan to Mecca; and the poll tax (jizya and kharaj)
collected from Jews and Christians, given as payment to ulema in the mosques
of al­Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock.26

Sometimes the link between payer and receiver was direct and immediate, as
in the case of timariots and waqf inspectors who were accustomed to
collecting taxes on their own behalf. In other cases the taxes were collected by
state officials. The muhtasib, an appointed functionary charged with
overseeing the market and checking weights and measures, collected taxes
from merchants and craftsmen in the city. Another official, usually an officer,
was charged with collection of the poll tax from non­Muslim communities. The
use of appointed tax collectors enabled the state to control its revenue to some
extent, but weak and withdrawn as it was at the beginning of the seventeenth
century, the Ottoman government could
 Page 151

not have had much influence on the scope and intensity of tax collection. Such
matters were left to the end­receivers to worry about. These latter did not
hesitate to put pressure on officials and to encourage them to collect more
money from taxpayers, and to deliver it faster. A series of records in the
Jerusalem sijill describes such a chain of events:
On 3 Muharram 1080 (3 June 1669) several people came to the shari'a court in
Jerusalem. Among them were Mustafa Aga, the commander of the city's citadel,
and Sayyid 'Abd al­Salam, his deputy (kethüda). They informed our lord the
qadi that the local muhtasib, Hasan the bölükbasi (janissary company
commander), left for Damascus, and has appointed in his place a certain
Muhammad Abu Sunayna to collect the city's market taxes, which are then to be
distributed among the soldiers stationed in the citadel. The two men explained
that the money is distributed as salary, and requested that the above­mentioned
Muhammad be summoned to court, and forewarned that he must collect the
year's market taxes from merchants and craftsmen, and that he has to commit
them to the safekeeping of a reliable person. Later they suggested that the
money be kept by Mustafa Aga, the citadel commander, after having collected
the sum and duly inscribing it in the sijill.

In view of their request the qadi summoned the muhtasib's representative and
cautioned him that he is expected to collect the money accruing from this year's
market taxes and to commit the revenue for safekeeping with the said Mustafa
Aga. 27

Later records in the same register disclose that other soldiers, this time
stationed in a small new fortress near the village of Artas near Bethlehem,
received their salaries from the same source.28 When they found out that their
colleagues in Jerusalem demanded and received the money, they too appealed
to the qadi, and demanded their share. The case of market tax revenues and
their allocation went on for several sessions of the shari'a court until all claims
were settled.

An intricate socioeconomic relationship can thus be discerned through the

matter­of­fact description in the sijills. The closed circuit of tax payment, and
the proximity between those who paid taxes and those who received the
money, created a direct and permanent link between segments of local society.
Just as the soldiers in the citadel made sure that the taxes accruing to them are
properly collected and distributed, so did other tax­receiving groups.
Representatives of Yerliyya battalions sent to Jerusalem checked to see
whether "their" avariz were collected on time, and ulema in the mosques
closely monitored the numbers of Christians and Jews in the city to make sure
they were not cheated out of their rightful share
 Page 152

of thejizya . Local society did not question the moral basis of the clear cut
division into rulers and ruled—those who paid taxes and those who received
them—as long as this division remained a remote and vague issue, but
allocating taxes within the confines of a small district juxtaposed well­defined
social groups and created tensions between them. Those who demanded swift
and full payment were in direct contact with those who tried to minimize it. The
natural outcome of such a system was continued fragmentation of the social
system, and even hostility between segments of society which, were it
unbridled by this continuous confrontation, could have been avoided.

In an article called "Agenda for Ottoman History," Huri Islamoglu and Çaglar
Keider examine the relationship between the Ottoman Empire's economic
structure and its social and political fabric. One of the main reasons for the
empire's social stability and for the persistent nature of the "Asiatic mode of
production" in its domains, they suggest, is the consistent separation between
producers, mainly farmers, and members of the ruling class that received all
economic surplus. Peasants in the Ottoman Empire worked as independents,
not as serfs, and their only contact with the upper class was through tax
collectors. Class tensions were thus alleviated and social integration
maintained, to the detriment of more advanced modes of production. 29

The situation in seventeenth­century Jerusalem, however, points to one of the

main weaknesses of this assumption. In the district of Jerusalem direct links
developed between taxpayers and tax­receivers in the governing and notable
elites. Peasants, merchants, craftsmen or members of religious minorities had to
pay tribute directly to janissaries, sipahis or ulema. Negotiations between
payers and receivers, pressures for more thorough tax collection, and demands
for prompt payment were very much a part of the local reality, and probably
led to strife and conflict between segments of society. If the set of production
relations typified as the "Asiatic mode of production" did exist in the Ottoman
Empire for long, the reasons must be found elsewhere. Exploitation in the
Ottoman provinces almost always had a name and a face attached to it.

One way to opt out of the taxpaying cycle was to join a privileged group that
did not have to pay taxes, or preferably one that was located at the receiving
end. Ashraf were exempt from payment but did not have a stake in the state's
treasury. Governors and their retinues, sipahis, janissaries, other military men
and ulema were all tax receivers. As the system lost its guiding principles,
differences were more apparent within the various componenets of the elite
itself. The military used their power to collect taxes even from other elite
members. Ulema and other notables petitioned the court and the sultan to grant
them tax bonuses, usually on grounds
 Page 153

of ancient precedent. Most desperate were the ashraf, who had to fight for tax
exemption. This was discernible in villages where families of ashraf descent
claimed recognition:

A group of venerable ashraf from the village of Farkha 30 in the nahiya

(subdistrict) of Jabal Nabulus came to court and notified the qadi that while all
ashraf in the region are exempt from local taxes, the governor [of Nabulus]
'Assaf Bey, leader of the hajj caravan (amir al­hajj), and his officers, harass
them and demand all kinds of payments and taxes. These demands are contrary
to the shari'a and to local custom. They requested the qadi to put an end to this
harassment and to unreasonable demands for payment made by the governors,
their officers, their slaves and their servants. This should be done in accordance
with ancient custom, and in honor of their illustrious forefather the messenger
[the prophet Muhammad]. In view of this the qadi sent a message to his
highness 'Assaf Bey amir al­hajj, demanding that he and his men stop
harassing the villagers of Farkha, and stop demanding payments and taxes.
Today a messenger came to court, and brought a letter from the governor. In his
letter the honorable 'Assaf Bey announces that he has received the qadi's
message and that in honor of the prophet and the qadi he will instruct his
slaves, servants and officers to refrain henceforth from harassing the ashraf
inhabitants of Farkha. The qadi then issued a notice prohibiting governors and
their representatives from harassing the inhabitants of Farkha in matters of tax
collection. Written on 20 Jumada al­Ula 1066 (15 March 1656).31

Several months later the villagers of Farkha raised a similar claim. In this
instance the governor, 'Assaf Bey, demanded that they pitch in, like all other
villages, to pay the expenses of the hajj caravan. The inhabitants of the village
refused and complained to the qadi. This time the governor was more
adamant. He brought representatives from the adjacent villages of Jama'in,
'Aqraba, Balita, Hawara, Burin and al­Kafr. They all testified that from the day
they were born it has been common knowledge that the inhabitants of Farkha
pay all impositions where the hajj caravan is concerned. 'Assaf Bey then told
the qadi that some time ago the villagers turned to the qadi in Jerusalem, and
asked him to defend them against this demand. In response to a query he
wrote to the qadi in Jerusalem and explained that even though they are not
entitled to exemption, and there is no such precedent, he decided to honor the
qadi's request and refrain from collecting this imposition from the ashraf of
Farkha this year.32

Similar claims were raised by other villages, some of which sent petitions to the
sultan and received firmans exempting them from payment
 Page 154

of taxes and impositions. Such attempts were not always successful, however,
and in some cases the petitioners' hopes to establish precedents were dashed.
It appears that decision­makers in Istanbul required a higher status set (ashraf
who were also town dwellers and owners of property, or ulema of certain
rank) in order to grant full exemption. Another facet of this struggle for tax
exemption is the tension between those who opted out of the taxpaying
community, and their neighbors who had to keep paying, and shoulder the
burden of those who left. The people of Jama'in, 'Aqraba, and the other
villages mentioned above, were undoubtedly hostile to their Farkhawi peers
who left them to carry the tax burden alone. They were probably happy to
oblige the governor and testify in court. 33

Decentralization of the tax system thus brought forth increased exploitation. As

tensions mounted, vertically as well as horizontally, between members of the
same social strata, the prospect of internal political crisis loomed ever nearer.
In the last decades of the seventeenth century, new, centrally appointed
governors joined hands with army officers already serving in the region, to
expand the circle of exploitable taxpayers. The ulema, a group that more than
any other provided social cement, was a prime target. Soon they too had to
pay, either directly or through cruel exploitation of villages they had rented.
Profits and property amassed through decades now started to dwindle rapidly,
and soon the ulema joined the widening ranks of the oppressed.

Internal Trade, Merchants and Craftsmen

While the older Mamluk tax system was taken for granted by the Ottoman
authorities, they had much more to say about the organization of urban trades
and crafts. In this realm local conditions and precedents were not as crucial,
and the Ottoman legislator felt that the system developed in the empire was
superior in many respects to anything the Mamluks had to offer. As in other
regions of the empire, internal trade in the district of Jerusalem was founded on
town­based unions of merchants and craftsmen. Such unions were locally
called hirfa or sinf, and the sijill often uses the term ta'ifa (pl. tawa'if—
group, sect).34 These unions resembled medieval European guilds in many
respects, but differed from them in other significant ways. In order to avoid the
automatic assumption that these institutions were identical, we should make use
of local terminology.

Local sources very seldom refer directly to the internal structure and the
hierarchy of the ta'ifa. Details must be inferred and restructured from travel
literature and sijill records. These latter also provide a lot of information on the
way these institutions operated, and on their important role in social and
economic life. It appears that during the century merchant
 Page 155

and artisan tawa'if did not go through major structural changes. They remained
dominant economic and cultural institutions.

Tawa'if were structured hierarchically. They were headed by a sheikh,

sometimes called ra'is, and when representing his peers usually referred to as
mutakallim (spokesman, representative). Licensed merchants or craftsmen
were termed usta or mu'allim. There seems to have been no differentiation
between these two ranks. Apprentices were called çirak or ilf (companion).
The special relationship between master and apprentice was based on personal
loyalty, as this short description of a case tried in the Nabulus shari'a court in
1656 demonstrates:
Muhammad, of the village of Isdud in the district of Gaza, sues master barber
Yusuf ibn 'Abdallah. 35 In his complaint the plaintiff claimed that the master
Yusuf has employed his son, Hasan, without due authorization from the child's
father. He demands that the master return the son to his parents' custody.
Master barber Yusuf, questioned on the matter, said that the boy joined his
employ of his own free will, and wishes to stay with his master and learn the
trade. The boy was therefore summoned and questioned, and he too replied that
he wished to stay with his master in order to learn the barber's profession.

In view of these declarations the qadi informed the plaintiff that he is not to get
custody of his son, unless the son himself so wishes, since the boy is now a
mature companion (ilf'aqil). He warned the plaintiff against trying to harm the
defendant or harass him.36

The ta'ifa sheikh was formally appointed by the qadi in a ceremony which
took place inside the shari'a court.37 In most cases, however, the qadi did
not intervene in choosing the person to head the organization. Neither did he
have any say in appointing the master craftsmen or merchants in the ta'ifa.
Deciding these matters was left to the members themselves. In all sijill cases
where the qadi appoints a head of a ta'ifa, it is done, at least ostensibly, by
request of the masters of that ta'ifa, and the person chosen is the one
recommended by the members. On the other hand, the qadi was authorized to
remove a sheikh who was found guilty of crimes or wrongdoing:
On 13 Rabi' al­Awwal 1033 (4 January 1624) Muhammad ibn Nuhaysi sued the
Christian Arslan, the sheikh of the jewelers' ta'ifa (al­suyyagh) in Jerusalem. In
his claim the plaintiff declared that he had paid the sheikh 11 ghurosh riyal
(Spanish reals) and 8 Egyptian qit'a, worth together 12 ghurosh asadi (Dutch
löwen rikstalers). In return the sheikh was to buy one hundred dirham of silver,
and cast a sheath
 Page 156

for the plaintiff's sword. The plaintiff claimed that the defendant bought impure
silver, and stamped it with the stamp of pure silver, to deceive the client. The
defendant claimed that, on the contrary, he bought more silver than he was
asked to buy—122 dirham—and therefore the plaintiff owes him 2.5 ghurosh
more. 38

In order to check both claims, the qadi ordered that the sheath in question be
melted down, and the silver content examined. Another jeweller, a certain
Constantine, was summoned to melt down the sheath in the presence of the
qadi, but while this examination was taking place, the defendant was caught
throwing 15 dirham of silver into the melting pot. When the examination was
over, the pot was found to contain only 105 dirham [and not 115 dirham, as
would have been the case had the 15 dirham thrown in by the defendant been
added to 100 dirham in the bowl].

In view of this result the qadi ruled that the defendant is a liar and a forger, and
is not worthy of the title of sheikh ta'ifa. He is to be chastised and removed
from his office.39

Several days later a new sheikh was appointed for the jewelers' ta'ifa. This
time it was Yusuf ibn Mustafa, a Muslim, appointed, the record declared,
because his predecessor was found out to be a liar. The new sheikh was
apparently elected by the members of the ta'ifa and the qadi was required to
give his consent to the choice. The government's involvement in the way the
tawa'if were conducted was thus limited mainly to cases where the person in
charge failed in his duty, or breached the authorities' trust. Yet the qadi had no
qualms about removing the sheikh, and the heads of the ta'ifa accepted his
jurisdiction in the matter.

The ta'ifa's code of conduct required that its members coordinate the rules of
their trade, the prices and the division of revenue among themselves. In the
former century the qadi, assisted by the muhtasib, would publish a detailed
and compulsory price list from time to time. These lists reflected the state of
demand and supply of most basic foodstuffs, and at the same time influenced
the market and prevented artificially induced high prices. Later on such lists
became more infrequent, and at the beginning of the seventeenth century the
price lists disappeared altogether. So yet another important tool of economic
supervision was forsaken. From this time on merchants and craftsmen were
authorized to determine their own prices for commodities and the quality of
products offered in the market. A dispute in the greengrocers' ta'ifa in 1702, is
a typical example:
In mid­Rabi' al­thani 1114 (August–September 1702) several members of the
greengrocers ta'ifa (al­khudariyya) in Jerusalem arrived in court, among them
hajj Qasim, hajj Hijazi, Hajj Isma'il, Hajj
 Page 157

Mutawi', Dawud and Badr. They claimed that their colleague from Ramla, Hijazi,
buys and sells vegetables in the market as he pleases, and does not share with
them his gains and losses, as he should according to the old custom that
requires all those who buy and sell vegetables in the market to be on a par with
their colleagues. 40

At this stage Hijazi declared that from now on he does not intend to stand in
opposition to his comrades' sale and purchase of vegetables. He mentioned that
according to his reckoning his friends owe him four ghurosh, but he will waive
this debt as a sign of good will on his part.41

The qadi, then, did not determine the level of prices and the allocation of
profits. He was approached in this matter as a neutral arbitrator who had no
say of his own in determining prices. He indicated that both sides should
adhere to the rules prevailing in the union, and refrained from commenting
about these rules. The qadi accepted the greengrocers' claim that they are free
to set their own prices as a cartel, and to prevent free competition between
merchants. This attitude, which defined the ta'ifa as the center of economic
decision­making, is also apparent in another case, tried in court some thirty
years earlier:
On 11 Jumada al­Akhira 1081 (26 October 1670) several people came to the
shari'a court in Jerusalem, among them Hajj Mahmud al­Dawud, Hajj 'abd al­
Haqq ibn Muhammad, the sheikh of the ta'ifa of the oil­press workers
(ma'sariyya) in the city, and Hajj Badr al­Din, the former muhtasib of Jerusalem,
all members of the oil­press ta'ifa. They claimed that the porters of sesame seed
[for the production of oil] have started delivering dirty loads of merchandise,
full of shells and dust, and heap it up on their thresholds in the street. Until the
present time they were used to getting their sesame free of dirt, and the new
practice is harmful to their trade and property. They requested that the qadi
order the sesame seed porters to cease this new practice, and threatened that if
this state of affairs continues, they may have to consider going out of business.

The qadi, unimpressed by the threat, made it clear to the members of the ta'ifa
that sale and purchase are only possible when both sides come to an
agreement ('ala tarad min al­ba'i' wa­l­mushtari) and that no one can
oppose anyone else wishing to undertake a certain line of work or to abandon
it. The members of the ta'ifa have a right to receive their sesame seed in better
condition, as they have in the past, but this is something they must agree upon
with their colleagues, the porters of sesame seed.42
 Page 158

A similar spirit of laissez­faire prevailed in most areas of trade and commerce.

Local government, taking its cues from Istanbul, reduced its involvement in the
daily management of the province's economy to a minimum. But this relative
freedom was restricted to the ta'ifa level. Its members were allowed to set
prices according to the state of supply and demand, or to make internal
arrangements for the allocation of profits. In order to protect the ta'ifa, the
Ottoman authorities, represented by the qadi, would defend its members in
their struggles against individuals or groups who threatened to take away the
ta'ifa's monopolist control over a certain domain. Such was the case when
members of the dyers' ta'ifa in Jerusalem found out that a group of merchants
from Hebron was conspiring to take over their line of business:

On 25 Sha'ban 1081 (7 January 1671) Yusuf bashsha 43 ibn Mahmud came to

court. He notified the qadi that he was representing the dyers (al­sabbaghin)
ta'ifa in Jerusalem, and claimed that several people have arrived in the city from
Hebron, among them a certain Sha'ban and his brother. Having purchased
clothes and indigo dye (nil) in Hebron, these people sell their products directly
to the inhabitants of Jerusalem, thus threatening the livelihood and standing of
ta'ifa members. Yusuf bashsha requested that the qadi prohibit this practice.
After checking the details of the complaint, the qadi did so.44

The qadi was prepared to go a long way to protect ta'ifa members against the
assaults of individuals, but even he drew the line at attempts by certain groups
of merchants to cooperate in illegally storing foodstuffs or other necessary
commodities in order to create an artificial shortage in the city and then raise
prices. Local authorities were also afraid that real shortages might be created
by this kind of unethical commercial activity. In such cases the qadi would
summon the members of the ta'ifa suspected of breaching the regulations, and
warn them that they will bear the consequences:
On 4 Rajab 1080 (28 November 1669) the mu'allim Sharaf ibn Mustafa al­
Rassas,45 the kayyal bashi46 complained to the qadi that several of the
merchants in the market, including Muhammad ibn Mustafa al­Rassas (a relative
of the kayyal bashi?) as well as Ahmad ibn Abi 'Ala' and others, are buying
great quantities of wheat and storing it in their depots near the market, in order
to sell them later at exorbitant prices. These practices, he claimed, are
detrimental to the interests of the people. He requested that the culprits be
summoned to court.

Having verified the details the qadi summoned the suspected merchants and
warned them against creating artificial shortages in town.47
 Page 159

Motivated by the belief that constant supply of basic foodstuffs to the city at
reasonable prices was the first duty of any government, Ottoman officials saw
such practices as a serious offence, and did their best to prevent real or
artificial shortages in the market. 48 Any attempt to make financial gains out of
such shortages was severely punished. On the other hand, however, the qadi
and his officers provided no protection for merchants and craftsmen against
exploitation by the governing elite.

Up until the 1670s and 1680s a relatively stable system of give and take was
established between local ruling dynasties and the tawa'if. In the last three
decades of the century, however, as the central bureaucracy, headed by vezirs
of the Köprülü family, managed to reassert its control over the provinces and
to destroy most local dynasties, the internal balance in the districts of Palestine
was shaken. Unlike previous governors, the new ones sent by Istanbul did not
feel any attachment to their new dominions, and usually saw them as a brief
stopover on the way to greater glory. In many cases their treatment of the local
populace was unusually harsh and cruel.

The plight of merchants, many of whom were obliged to supply the governor
and his retinue with food and luxuries free of charge, finds expression in
petitions and letters sent to Istanbul to protest against such humiliating
practices. These petitions were often aimed at the ''ahl al­'urf," the local­
Ottoman governing elite which included army forces stationed in the area,
sipahis, bureaucrats, the governor's retinue, and retainers of his servants and
henchmen. Some letters were sent directly to the sultan in Istanbul, while others
reached the governor's palace in Damascus. All testify to the qadi's inability to
assist the petitioners:
In the middle of Jumada al­Ula 1114 (October 1702) Hajj Kassab al­Fakhri, the
sheikh of the potters ta'ifa (al­fawakhiriyya , or bardakcilar in Turkish) came to
the shari'a court in Jerusalem, and presented a sultanic edict dated mid­Rajab
1113 (December 1701). The firman (summarized briefly in the sijill) recounts that
the potters' ta'ifa had sent a petition to the sultan and claimed that ahl al­'urf in
Jerusalem often seize pottery and earthenware objects from them by force, and
do not pay for them. The edict instructs the governors49 to stop this kind of
mistreatment, and to instruct their entourages to cease this habit of forcibly
taking merchandise from the potters.50

Local notables, mainly 'ulama, sympathized with the struggle of these

merchants and craftsmen, many of whom were related to them through
marriage and business partnerships. Here and there a group of local notables
joined together to help them, as the following record in the Mühimme
Defterleri demonstrates:
 Page 160

Mid­Rabi' al­Thani 1112 (end of September 1700). An order to the qadi of

Jerusalem.

You, the above­mentioned qadi, have sent a letter to my palace, and the rest of
the ulema, the sadat and the notables of Jerusalem have sent a petition
[claiming that] the governors of the district and their appointed deputies
(mütesellim) do not pay the prices of goods they take. Moreover, they abuse
people and mistreat them. The petitioners requested a royal edict in the matter.

Therefore you, the qadi, should see to it that governors, deputies and others of
the governing elite pay the full price of goods to those entitled to such
payment, and that they do so every month. Do not allow any postponement or
evasion, and prevent harm or suffering. 51

Small wonder, then, that when rebellion broke out at the end of 1702, the
merchants and craftsmen hurried to collect their debts from the few officials still
trapped inside the city:
'Ali Aga, pride of the a'y an , former deputy of the former governor of Jerusalem,
Muhammad Pasha, came to court today and reminded the qadi that when
Muhammad Pasha left the city at the beginning of Safar (June 1702) he was
appointed deputy. During the three months from the beginning of Rabi' al­Akhir
to mid­Rajab (September to November) this year, he had expenses totalling 230
ghurosh asadi. His expenses included payment for bread, meat, coffee, dibs
(grape syrup), olive oil, barley for camels, onion, the wages of the water carrier
and the gatekeeper, and expenses for the lodging and food of sekban soldiers
sent there from Nabulus by the pasha. He asked the qadi to summon the heads
of merchant unions (asnaf) in town and to inspect his statement with them.

Consequently, several merchants including 'Amir the butcher, Sha'ban the

bazar bashi, and Hajj Musa the baker came to court and confirmed that they
have received payment in full from 'Ali Aga for meat, bread, oil, samn (clarified
butter) and other merchandise for the said period, and that 'Ali Aga does not
owe them any money. 'Ali Aga also confirmed these words, and by doing so
was declared free of his debt towards them for all the above­mentioned
commodities. Established in accordance with the shari'a at our lord the qadi's
court, on 12 Rabi' al­Thani 1114 (5 September 1702).52

Could it be the rage of Jerusalem's merchants, exploited for so many years by

the governing elite, that hides beneath the surface of this record? Public
announcements of merchants and craftsmen at court that they received
payment from the governor and his household for goods supplied was
 Page 161

a regular feature of economic life. Such announcements were recorded in the

sijill from time to time. Yet here the governor's deputy, the mutasallim
himself, humbly appears in court as a public servant accounting for his actions,
and specifies his expenses, including items never before discussed in public.
The debtors do not wait for him in court in awed silence. They show up only
when summoned by the qadi, and graciously accept the money. But the
merchants' satisfaction, if that is what it was, did not last long. Soon the revolt
was put down, and the new governors, backed by a bigger and hungrier army,
were no better than the old ones.

All in all, Jerusalem's commercial world was based on the same basic concepts
and assumptions as the one laid out by taxation systems. The central
government's ability to oversee traders and craftsmen and to regulate their
unions had waned considerably in the sixteenth century. A relative measure of
law and order gave way to a loose agglomeration of incoherent rules. The
representatives of Ottoman rule adhered to a few basic principles, such as
preserving the monopoly of each ta'ifa in its realm, constant supply of basic
foodstuffs, and prohibition of arbitrary pricing. Yet they allowed trade and
commerce to take their course, abandoning old practices of price regulation
and production quotas.

Under different conditions this could have sufficed to give commerce a much
needed boost and allow it to take off again, but such a market economy had a
darker side. The local government did not provide protection for the merchants
and craftsmen against its own representatives, members of the governing elite,
who did their best to skim most of the economic surplus, took away much
needed capital, and thus allowed very limited scope for expansion and
development.

Foreign Trade and Contact with Europe

During the Mamluk period Palestine's trade via the Mediterranean littoral was
very limited. In the wake of the Crusades all coastal towns were deserted and
most harbors were destroyed. These conditions provided no safe haven for
ships, and none of the necessary services. The main bulk of trade with Europe
and North Africa was directed by the Mamluk rulers to the ports of Lebanon,
Northern Syria and Egypt. Right after the conquest the Ottomans prohibited
export of commodities such as wheat and cotton. This prohibition, meant to
prevent the draining of vital commodities by a rich and thirsty European
market, slowed down the process of restoration. But in the course of the
seventeenth century, the coastal towns of Palestine were gradually revived. 53

During the century foreign trade went through two significant shifts. First, the
ban on exports to Europe was either lifted or eroded by repeated
 Page 162

infringements. Throughout the period, in documents from both the center and
the province, there is no mention of such a ban, or of the need to fight exports
to Europe. The central government (unlike local one) even tried to encourage
foreign trade, with France in particular, and to alleviate the tax burden on
foreign and local traders. The second shift had to do with the type of
commodities and the trade balance. In the former century the most important
items of trade, exported to Europe in spite of the ban, were wheat and other
cereals. In the seventeenth century, however, cereals diminished in importance,
and were replaced by other items, mainly cotton, soap, and alkaline ashes for
the production of soap. Wheat was of secondary importance, and bought by
foreign traders only in years of bad harvests in Europe. 54

Muslim sources tend to remain silent on the matter of foreign trade with Europe
during the century. This is perhaps an indication that some of the old
prohibitions on export were still enforced, but even more than that, it indicates
that the volume of trade with Europe was relatively small. Had it been of more
consequence, its problems would have found their way into sijills,fatawa
collections, or other written documents. In the course of the century this
volume of trade may have developed somewhat, but not enough to leave a
serious impression in local legal or historical records. Another indication is the
fact that income from port customs was usually not a serious bone of
contention between officers, officials and local magnates.

Most of the source material concerning this trade is to be found in European

archives, mainly in France. French merchants were among the first to establish
a nation, a small trading community, in Acre and in Ramla (for the port of
Jaffa). These merchants, as well as men of commerce and diplomats from
other European states, passed on valuable economic information to their
countrymen and authorities. They sent in reports about encounters, terms of
trade, weather conditions and potential values. In the ports of Europe,
particularly in the port of Marseilles, these reports coincided with an attempt to
regulate the flow of commodities in and out of the country, and local harbors
started recording ship movements and merchandise to and from the Levant.
Important information, of a more impressionistic nature, can be obtained from
the descriptions of travelers and pilgrims.

On the Palestinian coast, Acre was the most important port, vying with its
northern neighbor, Sayda, for primacy as the major port of the region. Jaffa,
the coastal town closest to Jerusalem, was much smaller in comparison, and at
the beginning of the century only a trickle of trade passed through it. From the
beginning of the period it was described by
 Page 163

pilgrims as a half­deserted village, with no harbor to speak of. This is how it

was described by the Russian monk Sukhanov in 1649:
Ancient is the town of Jaffa. Once very big, now only traces remain: a few Arab
tents beside the sea, and a little food market near the ships' docking place. A
small new fortress was erected on a mountain by the sea. It is guarded night and
day. 55

And a similar description by an Englishman twenty years later:

We arrived at Joppa, which hath no harbor to defend ships from storms, but
very good ground to anchor in, about ten fathom water. It is a poor town and
hath one castle to defend those ships that come in close to the shoar. The chief
trade thereof is pot­ashes for soap, cottons and cotton yarn, which the Franks
bring from thence.56

Jaffa had no harbor. Its moorings, exposed to the wind and the waves, were
sometimes dangerous. The only advantage was its proximity to Jerusalem and
to the fertile plains of Ramla, the main source for cotton in the area. Yet this
was not enough to create a need for further development until well into the
eighteenth century. Another factor which slowed down development was
frequent attacks by pirates on ships at anchor. Such attacks were carried out
by Christian and Muslim pirates alike. Christian pirates, many of them French,
were particularly detrimental to European trade, because they sometimes
hoisted European flags on approaching the coast, and surprised the
unsuspecting Muslim ships docked there and the inhabitants of the small
community itself. The damage caused by such raids made the authorities
suspicious of European merchants, and they were often accused of trying to
assist the pirates. Similar raids by Muslim pirates on French ships were seen as
retaliation for Christian atrocities, and sometimes even encouraged by the local
garrison, as we learn from a letter sent by local French merchants to Marseille:
While soap was being loaded on a [French] ship in Jaffa, a small vessel from
Salé (in Algeria) entered the docking area. The vessel, manned by a crew of
forty corsairs, attacked the ship. The captain and four of his people were taken
prisoner and reduced to slavery, and their ship was burned. When the raid was
over, the captain of the pirate vessel, ra'is Ibrahim, went ashore, brought
presents to the customs master, and both sat down to have coffee together.

Since the pasha had gone away on the pilgrimage to Mecca, the [French]
merchants complained to his deputy, but it is clear that this one, who is not as
honest as his master, will not do anything.57
 Page 164

Whether Christian or Muslim, these corsair attacks hampered the development

of Jaffa and its vicinity, and delayed the development of trade with Europe.
Such incidents became more frequent in the 1680s and 1690s, until, under
pressure from Western ambassadors in the sultan's court, a decision was taken
to improve the harbor's defensive measures. In 1690 an edict was sent to the
governor of Gaza and Jerusalem, Murtada Pasha, commanding him to protect
Jaffa and its harbor by sending an adequate number of timar and zeamet
holders on regular shifts of duty to the site. 58 Such measures did not suffice,
however, and a decade later the government had to resort to other means. In
1703 new cannon were brought and stationed in the small fortress. This caused
some uproar by local customs officials and clerks who used the fortress as a
convenient depot and working place. The new guns needed a lot of space, and
the officials were told to leave the fortress and find some other residence. In a
hearing at the Jerusalem shari'a court, the officials (and several merchants)
demanded that the new guns be placed atop the fortress walls, not in the
courtyard. But the local commander refused, claiming that the walls were not
strong or stable enough to carry the cannon. The qadi's decision in this matter
is not on record, but it seems that whatever measures were taken, they did not
suffice. Pirate raids did not stop, and Jaffa was still a favorite of corsairs in
following decades.59

Daily tribulations, added to such corsair attacks, made life miserable for the
few European merchants residing in Ramla and Acre. Some of these difficulties
were caused by fear and suspicion, and by a wide cultural gap. Others were
the result of the fluctuating political relations between the Ottoman Empire and
their respective homelands. English merchants of the Levant Company
apparently decided to give up the Palestinian littoral altogether, and preferred
to stay in Aleppo, and to purchase cotton in Ramla through a local agent. This
cotton was sent to Acre on barges or boats, and loaded on three or four
English ships every year. The Dutch ran a similar operation, and they too
bought about four shiploads of cotton a year.60 The only ones to choose
Ramla and Acre as a permanent base were the French, who resided there
from the beginning of the century, and only left for short periods when
conditions became unbearable.61

The small nation in Ramla sent letters to France complaining of corruption,

mistreatment by the authorities and the population, and difficulties in
establishing trade contacts. They were forced to pay high custom rates and to
bribe local officials regularly. Their negotiations with farmers and local
merchants were carried out using an unfamiliar and unstable set of weights and
measures. Some of these problems were debated in the Jerusalem shari'a
court in 1623:
 Page 165

[It appears that] the affairs of the inhabitants of Ramla and Jaffa have been
confused, and they are much given to investigating and checking about
weights and measures and their use for commerce at this time. The current state
of affairs is that when they weigh merchandise "against" buyers (idha iktalu
'ala al­nas) they get the right price, whereas if they weigh correctly, or in favor
of the client, they receive less than the price intended for the product. It was
therefore checked in the ledger of affairs (diwan al­umur) for the general public,
and it was found that the mudd [heavy weight measure] in Ramla and in the port
of Jaffa is precisely twice the mudd in Jerusalem, so that one Ramla mudd is
worth two Jerusalem mudds. When the Jerusalem mudd was checked, it was
found to weigh exactly thirteen and one third ratls of rice, and the Jerusalem
ratl was found to weigh 840 dirham, as the specialists and waqf officials in
Jerusalem have established. In accordance with this an edict has been
published on 14 Safar 1033 (7 December 1623). 62

The reasons for this confusion are not explained, but it may have been the
natural deterioration of metal weights used by the merchants in Ramla and
Jaffa. Reading this record, though, we may begin to understand the kind of
difficulties encountered by French merchants and the differences in culture
between them and their hosts. The local system of coins, weights and
measures, complex and incoherent even to local inhabitants, was undoubtedly
suspect from the start in a Frenchman's eye. Attempts by Ramlan merchants to
get the right price by weighing "against" clients only made things worse, and led
to a feeling of mistrust and suspicion among the French. These feelings find
expression in letters sent to the chamber of commerce in Marseilles, and in
reports sent by consuls to the ministry of foreign affairs in Paris.63

The feeling of mistrust was reciprocated. When the Druze emir Fakhr al­Din II,
aided by the Christian princes of Toscana, attempted to conquer the districts of
Palestine at the beginning of the century, rumors about a new crusade, never
far from the surface, began to circulate again. Such rumors had a crucial
influence on relations between Christians and Muslims in the area. Thus Jean
Lempereur, who was appointed consul in Jerusalem in 1623, found himself
isolated from the governors and officials of the city by a wall of suspicion, and
was finally arrested and deported.64

In the second half of the seventeenth century, following a period of withdrawal

caused by the Ottoman­Venetian war, and by internal difficulties in France
itself, the French merchants returned to Palestine. Trade was revived and even
grew for a while. One of the reasons for the growth in trade was worsening
relations between the French merchants
 Page 166

and the governor of Sayda in Lebanon. The French trading community was
forced to leave Sayda, and many of the traders found refuge in Acre and
Ramla. The newcomers encountered many new difficulties, and some were
even prepared to go back to Sayda, and to suffer the harshness of the
governor there, instead of the going through the hardships and misery of life in
Acre or Ramla. As one trader who decided to return to Sayda said: "It is
enough to have suffered one year in such a miserable place, where we have
lost so many of our colleagues." Yet it was in this dark period that the
foundations were laid for a permanent French presence, and for the continued
export of cotton, ashes for soap­making and, occasionally, wheat. 65

Another factor which contributed to the growth in trade was the new policy
promoted by the palace and the government in France. In 1661 Colbert was
appointed minister of commerce. His main goal was developing France's trade
and industry in order to compete with England. Trade with the cotton­rich
Levant was therefore a cornerstone in his policy, and French ambassadors to
the Sublime Porte were instructed to demand concessions for traders and to
press for the appointment of consuls in these regions of the Ottoman Empire.
As a result, many of the dragomans and officials who stood in the way of
French merchants in port towns were removed and replaced by others. The
defence of ports against corsair raids was improved, and trade flourished
again. The amount of cotton imported from the Levant into France grew
steadily, and at the beginning of the eighteenth century exports and imports
between France and the Levant were balanced. In 1721 French imports from
the Levant were calculated as 531,293 French pounds (livres), while the
exports were 532,216 livres.66

A few years earlier, in the mid­seventeenth century, in order to encourage

imports for industrial purposes and help the burgeoning textile industry in
France, custom fees on cotton bought in the Levant were reduced. At the end
of the century, however, with France's Carribean colonies gaining in economic
importance, the state council (conseil d'etat) decided to erect barriers against
Levant cotton imports, and to make trade with the eastern Mediterranean
much less profitable for both traders and manufacturers. On 11 December
1691 a new, unexpected edict was published, raising custom fees on cotton
yarn to an unprecedented high, and at the same time lowering customs on
Carribean cotton to about ten percent of its former level. The French
infrastructure in Lebanon and Palestine was on the verge of collapse.

But, as the French government soon learned, trade with the Levant was even
more crucial for France than it estimated. It soon became clear that the
damages sustained by the French textile industry were much more severe than
the profits made in America. The owners of textile factories,
 Page 167

concentrated in and around the city of Lyon, were desperate. In letters and
petitions to the king and the council they pleaded that they need cotton yarn
spun in the Levant, because they do not possess the technical knowledge to
process Levant cotton and spin it into yarn strong enough for their machines to
weave. The cotton imported from America, on the other hand, can be spun
and woven, but "is not of a quality suitable for the factories in Lyon." 67 As a
result of the new French policy, trade with the Levant was indeed reduced, but
the wheels of France's textile industry almost ground to a halt along with it.
Faced with repeated requests, the council yielded and in 1700 another edict
was declared, annulling the former edict and lowering taxes on Levant cotton
to their former rates.68 In the wake of this decision, trade with the Levant
ports was soon back to normal, and Marseilles' registers indicate that from this
point on most of the cotton imported into France was "coton de Jerusalem"
and a smaller share is described as "coton de Rame" or "coton d'Acre." The
volume of trade throughout the first years of the eighteenth century was slowly
rising.69

In an article on international competition and the Ottoman textile industries in

the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Benjamin Braude claims that the
leaders of the Ottoman Empire were uninterested in catering to economic
needs of private subjects and enterprises not entirely congruent with those of
the state. Such state interests were often perceived very narrowly as supplies
for the army and for other security forces. European industries could not claim
a technological advantage over local ones at the time. Indeed, sometimes the
opposite was true. Local industries were more advanced and of higher quality.
But there was no merchant or entrepreneurial stratum of the kind prominent in
England. No social group had risen to fight for a more aggressive economic
policy, to equip local industry to cope with the challenges of rising costs and
commodity dumping by foreign merchants. The state's main concern was
taxation and allocation, and open borders for commodities were perceived as
a means to increase income. Production by local craftsmen, on the other hand,
was heavily taxed. Ottoman trades and crafts were thus at a marked
disadvantage.70

Summing up the conditions of Jerusalem's foreign trade, we can conclude that

it fits the above description. In comparison with the dynamic approach of
French authorities to trade with the Levant, and even in comparison with the
active cohesion of industrialists in Lyon, governors and traders in Jerusalem,
and in the Ottoman Empire in general, were oblivious to the big picture, and
failed to see the advantages of concerted action. They made no attempt to
manage the trade, failed to defend the vital interests of local commerce and
agriculture, and did nothing when
 Page 168

the volume of trade subsided for a while. Although the revenues to be gained
from foreign trade were tremendous, there was no attempt to provide better
conditions for French traders, or to stimulate trade with France and its
competitors. Provincial governors repeatedly saw foreign merchants as a
nuisance and a potential security threat, and often blamed them for assisting
corsair raids.

The Long Road to Peripheralization

This description can be perceived as part of a wider unfolding process: the

assimilation of Ottoman economy into the world's emerging economic system.
It is usually accepted that this process of "peripheralization," through which
large areas of the world became an economic periphery totally dependent on
the industry and technology of Western Europe, had reached its apex in the
mid­nineteenth century. Even if we do not accept the neo­Marxist premises of
such a description of the process, the way it is seen to have unfolded, with an
economic core emerging in Europe, and a periphery in ever­widening circles
around it, provides an invaluable insight into the situation in the Levant area in
later centuries. The initiation of this process is one of the issues that bewilder
researchers of Ottoman economic history. When did the empire as a whole,
and more specifically the eastern shores of the Mediterranean, become so
deeply involved with the European world economy? When did they become a
dependent periphery of the industrialized world? 71

Determined efforts by the French government and its traders and

representatives in the area, coupled with the dismissive attitude of local
merchants, had initiated a slow but constant process of change in the local
economy. More and more primary resources and agricultural products were
exported to Europe throughout the century. At the same time the volume of
import of finished products from Europe increased steadily, some, perhaps,
were products made in Europe from Levant materials, such as wool and
cotton, and redirected into the area.

During the seventeenth century, however, this process was only in its very early
stages. The volume of trade was not very significant, and as we have seen, at
this point in time French merchants, like the English and Dutch, were more
dependent on production in the Levant than vice versa. Local manufacture was
still equipped to output products of a quality that factories in Europe were
unable to imitate. The failure of the French state council to decrease trade with
the Levant and to redirect cotton trade to its own American colonies
demonstrates the problems faced by the French textile manufacture, still
dependent on Ottoman production techniques. Yet it may be safely assumed
that consumption habits of the local
 Page 169

population were not yet based on European commodities, and that imports
were mostly luxury items: small quantities of expensive fabrics, guns, spices,
paper and foreign currency.

In the previous century the Ottoman government tried to prevent contraband

exportation of raw materials to Europe. Now, at least as far as the government
was concerned, trade flowed without hindrance. Ottoman rule did not strive to
prevent trade, but to collect its revenues, even at the cost of losing control over
exported quantities. European traders made nice profits. Capitulations agreed
to by the central government in Istanbul guaranteed the traders reduced tax
payments and safe transportation, and made it possible for them to conduct
business in the hostile atmosphere prevalent in some provinces.

At the same time local taxation systems appear to have lost their guiding
principles. Collection was decentralized and became more arbitrary. The
Ottoman center gave up control of internal trade and of local merchant and
craftsmen unions. The prices of merchandise sold in the markets were decided
by the merchants themselves with no government interference. The same was
true for monetary systems. A large part of the coins in use were foreign, and
the Ottoman government made almost no attempt to control their flow or their
value. All these symptoms indicate a marked decrease in government
involvement in provincial economy, and perhaps even in the economy of the
imperial center. This growing vacuum was filled by a marked increase in the
importance of market forces.

Keyder and Islamoglu, two economic historians of the Ottoman Empire, claim
that when the state lost its ability to control external and internal trade and to
oversee monetary and fiscal systems, it also lost the ability to direct the
economy and to reproduce the economic basis of government. In other words,
loss of control over the economy also meant losing the capability to maintain
the Ottoman Empire as a closed economic system perpetuated by the ruling
elite. As a result of this weakness, this isolated economic system went through
a phase of disarticulation which led to penetration by the Western world
economy, and eventually to peripheralization. 72

In the district of Jerusalem decentralization and the breakup of central control

led in two different directions: on the one hand, a measure of liberty and
prospects of development for private enterprises and market economy, and on
the other, increased exploitation of the population by local forces. In this
second respect the decentralization of Ottoman rule did not lead to a
weakening of power altogether. From the subjects' point of view decentralized
rule doubled the pressure of government and its local agents. Instead of one
government there were now several—the sultan, the provincial governor, the
district governor and his lackeys. In
 Page 170

economic terms, at least, this situation led to the impoverishment of the

population at large, and to a gradual weakening of the Ottoman economy.

Yet, even though some of the necessary conditions existed, the district of
Jerusalem did not become a periphery of the emerging world economy. Its
economic systems were to a large extent separate from those of Europe, its
port towns were only partly rebuilt, the volume of trade was relatively small
and, it seems, well balanced. In terms used by adherents of world economy
theory, there was as yet no real confrontation between the Mediterranean­
Atlantic ''world economy" and the Mediterranean shores of the Ottoman
"world empire." 73

The process was stalled for several reasons. The first has to do with the
Western core itself. The European drive for industrialization was only then
beginning to affect trade. In many domains, such as the soap industry or the
textile industry, Western Europe had no significant advantage over the Islamic
world. Aggressive capitalist and mercantilist policies have already begun to
play a considerable role, and in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries caused a considerable weakening of Ottoman industries such as wool
and cotton. But such policies did not destroy the basis of Ottoman industry
altogether. Quite a few manufactures in various parts of the empire succeeded
in competing with this pressure, and even in flourishing under these
conditions.74

Another reason for the failure to peripheralize was the attitude of the
inhabitants, specifically those of Jerusalem and its coastal plain, towards the
Christian West. The trauma of the Crusades (whether historical or mythic) in
collective memory, and the recent memories of Fakhr al­Din's exploits, aided
by a militant church spirit revived in Northern Italy earlier in the century, all led
to suspicion. Stories were recounted of renewed attempts by Christian armies
to subdue the Ottoman Empire and to conquer the Holy Land. These fears
have been the cause of repeated insults directed at Christian merchants, and of
hostility towards their consuls and representatives. In such an atmosphere
traders found it very difficult to promote their business and had to content
themselves with a precarious status and a mission fraught with danger.

The main cause, however, for the failure of European trade to take over
commerce and industry in these parts had to do with decentralization itself. The
temporary weakness of central rule, the empire retreating into itself, the
concentration of all available resources in order to defend itself on several
fronts, all these left the district with no focal point of its own. In the second half
of the century, the central government in Istanbul attempted to obliterate local
dynasties, but failed in the attempt to replace them by competent governors
appointed by the center and to recentralize rule. In the course of the century no
substitute center of was created
 Page 171

in Palestine and its vicinity. Local notables had indeed acquired a high
economic and social status, but had very little political power, and for most of
the century they were not capable of imagining themselves as a group with
political clout. Merchants and craftsmen did not cooperate outside their guilds
and unions, and did not form a cohesive force united in its outlook. The hazy
outlines of such a center led by the notables were only beginning to emerge at
the end of the seventeenth century, but they too were effaced by the Naqib al­
Ashraf revolt.

All this considered, it was almost impossible for the local population to
maintain a coherent economic policy. Since land was usually divided into small
lots, and very few were concentrated in the hands of one person or one family,
foreign merchants had to deal with many small­scale farmers and merchants,
with different aims and policies. Buying commodities on a large scale for one
set price was unimaginable. French traders had to maneuver to the best of their
ability in the economic quicksands of the district. In this atmosphere no large­
scale or long­term contracts could be negotiated.

The obvious weakness of the economic center, and its inability to concentrate
and regulate trade, or at least to direct it in a more concentrated beam, as it
were, was in some ways an advantage for foreign traders. French and English
merchants did not have a powerful cartel to contend with, and could, to some
extent at least, dictate the terms of trade. On the other hand, the difficulties
involved in trying to gather a substantial shipment of one commodity were so
great, that even old hands, merchants familiar with local conditions, were
unable to purchase or sell large quantities. In this respect the seventeenth
century was once more an interim period between late­sixteenth­century
decentralization, which entailed a lessening of control over landholding and
trade, and the rise of local power brokers a century later. These new rulers
attached emphasis to tax farms (which in several cases merged into very large
personal estates) and the recuperation of coastal towns and ports. Both were
events that, in the local sphere, accelerated the pace of peripheralization.
 Index

  
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Chapter 7
Worlds Apart
Women in a Men's World
The lives of women in Ottoman Jerusalem should not be seen as a monolithic,
uniform pattern, unchanging through time. They were, quite naturally, bound up
with those of men in corresponding socioeconomic groups. When hard times
or harsh rulers deprived men of their status and property, women were also
affected. When fallahin were allowed to buy and sell land, village women
prospered too. In this sense there was no real difference between the sexes.
Yet the changing patterns of gender roles did not necessarily follow the curve
of political and economic events. Here the effects of such changes traced a
path of their own, spanning a longer durée. To see what women's lives were
like in seventeenth­century Jerusalem and how they were reflected in historical
sources, we should turn to the texts and documents.

Women in Jerusalem did not write about themselves, at least not until the
middle of the nineteenth century. In the attempt to reconstruct their cultural life
and social position, we must rely on other sources of information. One such
important source is travel literature. Another is the sijill records kept by the
Muslim shari'a court. These two types of material evoke images of women so
different from one another as to suggest a deeper underlying cultural cause.
Describing these different images we may attempt to uncover some of the
stereotypes and biases they reflect. The contradictory attitudes of the two
sources thus become both a means for understanding women's history in the
period and an end in itself—an
 Page 174

attempt to assess the different contributions of two types of sources to the

history of the Ottoman provinces.

Women in Travel Literature

Many of the travelers to the Holy Land in the seventeenth century made few
observations regarding society and culture outside their own minority
communities, but a few were more curious about their surroundings. Some of
these early amateur ethnographers tried to describe the different cultures they
encountered in the East but failed miserably in the attempt. 1 Others, mostly
Frenchmen, seem to have attained a deeper level of insight. One of these, the
French author Eugène Roger, was a Franciscan monk with some knowledge of
early modern medicine. Roger was appointed in or around 1630 to serve as
court physician to the Lebanese amir Fakhr al­Din II, a local Druze ruler of
the Lebanon. He served the amir for a few years before moving to Jerusalem
in 1634 to practice medicine there. On several occasions during his stay he
treated Muslim women of high status, usually hidden from his view behind a
partition or door while he took their pulse.2 Roger's observations are echoed
by other travelers. Laurent d'Arvieux spent twelve years in the area, from 1653
to 1665, as secretary to the Turabay governing family in the district of Lajjun,
not far from Jerusalem.3 Antoine Morison, a French monk, traveled through
Jerusalem and the Arabic­speaking provinces later in the century.4

The lot of women in the Orient according to Roger is much worse than that of
women in Europe. Muslim women in the Levant are treated as chattel for men
to buy and sell. A man can buy as many as he desires, on condition that he can
provide for them in keeping with their position in society. The only exceptions
to this rule are widows who may buy husbands for themselves, usually on
condition that they escort them on the arduous road to Mecca for the hajj.
Girls are often married off at the age of seven or eight, Roger relates, well
before puberty. In most cases the parents choose the husband, and the couple
meet for the first time during the wedding ceremony itself.5 The bride usually
has no information about her future husband; the groom relies on the
descriptions of women in the family who have seen the girl in the bathhouse.
D'Arvieux, basing his experience on his observations of bedouin society,
recounts that since young Arab men and women have no opportunities to
communicate with each other, falling in love is based on fantasy, such as the
man imagining how a specific girl looks under her veil, or on the stories of
others. Prospective bridegrooms devise ways to see their intended brides,
sometimes hiding near a well, where women would uncover their faces when
there are no men around. A girl seeking to encourage a boy might dare to
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"accidentally" drop her veil for a moment, making it seem as though she were
trying to adjust it. 6

As part of the marriage agreement a bride­price is paid by the husband to the

bride's parents, who use some of it to prepare a dowry of clothes and
housewares. Sometimes it is paid in merchandise or livestock. Before the
wedding parents may buy their daughter a set of jewels: necklaces, rings,
anklets and bracelets.7 All these "strange" customs, states Roger, are also
practiced by the local Christians. D'Arvieux adds that daughters are
appreciated as a special source of income for their parents. The observations
imply that for women issues of marriage and family are dominated by the cruel
and merciless practices of the market which demean the sanctity of matrimony:
fathers sell their daughters into marriage and resell them in case of divorce, and
even a woman can buy a husband. When a married couple divorces, the
mother takes the daughters and the father takes the sons "unless a different
transaction was previously agreed between them."8

Yet marriage is considered a sacred matter among Muslims, or as Morison

puts it: "une alliance qui a quelque chose de saint."9 The marriage contract,
locally called iktoub,10 is prepared by the qadi. Those who cannot afford an
official written contract find witnesses for an oral one stating the terms of the
marriage.11 The wedding ceremony is gay and colorful. In Jerusalem, even
inside the city, the parents would adorn a camel with flowers and greenery. It is
followed by others carrying the dowry. Bedouin drivers lead these camels
around decorated tents, playing flutes and tambourines, and the procession is
cheered on by women's ululations. A banquet awaits the numerous guests after
the ceremony. Both women and men are invited, but each group is entertained
separately. D'Arvieux adds that at the end of the wedding ceremony the bride
and the groom are usually sequestered in a room, following which the groom
returns with a kerchief stained with his bride's blood.12 Divorce, of course, is
a much more mundane affair, as Roger explains. Men need no excuse to
dissolve the marriage and can do so whenever they wish without providing a
reason. Women cannot do the same. A woman seeking a divorce applies to
the qadi and must prove one of a specific limited number of legal grounds, in
order to annul the marriage.

When wedding ceremonies are over, the travelers recount, the wife moves into
her husband's house. She is in charge of all household duties. Married women
rarely leave their homes, and when they do, their daughters and female slaves
precede them to warn of their arrival. Bedouin women wear small bells in their
hair to announce their approach.13 The cause for these precautions is the
legendary jealousy of Muslim husbands, claims d'Arvieux. It is enough to
mention a horned ram in their presence
 Page 176

to make them suspicious of being cuckolded. To avoid this, men take care and
refer to sheep in general terms when discussing their herds. Women suspected
of having betrayed their husbands are murdered by their brothers or fathers
who are held responsible for the behavior of their female relatives even after
the marriage.

Women do not learn to read or write. "All around the Holy Land," writes
Roger, "there is not a woman or a girl who knows the shape of one letter, nor
one who can give any sort of valid explanation of their laws." 14 They spend
most of their time embroidering kerchiefs and shirts. This lack of education is
apparently mirrored in their wild appearance and in their cosmetic rituals: their
hair and hands are dyed with henna, their eyes painted in blue­black kohl.
Their faces, hands and breasts are often tattooed in patterns of leaves, flowers
and other symbols, to which they add new shapes and colors every year.15

Women's main social activity outside the house is visiting the hammam now
and then to bathe with other women. Sometimes they meet to visit the
cemetery or to join a funeral procession. Funerals have thus become festive
occasions. Women abandon themselves to an ecstasy of wailing songs and
dances in slow monotone. An old woman would recite an ode while the rest
stand in a semicircle facing her, repeating her words and dancing a rhythmic
dance. Such morbid social gatherings repeat themselves every Thursday, when
women visit the graves of their loved ones and adorn them with flowers.
Having completed their task, they often roam the city in large groups, chatting
among themselves and making an ear­splitting din. The only amusement
bedouin women may enjoy, says d'Arvieux, echoing Roger's words, is chatting
among themselves under their tents.

Roger's thorough description, complemented by d'Arvieux, Morison, and other

travelers, draws a grim portrait of the lives of Muslim (and Christian) women in
seventeenth­century Palestine. They are uneducated and ignorant, have few
rights, and are usually confined to the four walls of their house. For a fleeting
moment of distraction they turn the grief and lamentation of a funeral into a
festive occasion. Although Roger's description is much more detailed and
informed than most, other Western travelers describe much the same unhappy
plight.16

Women in Court Records and Local Sources

While local sources—mainly sijills andfatawa collections—supply a great

deal of raw material, they do not provide a basis for statistical study of
women's status. At best, they reflected the situation within the city walls with
partial accuracy, and even there only for certain social strata. We have
 Page 177

almost no way of knowing which social groups chose to conduct their personal
affairs elsewhere. Perhaps more crucial is the fact that many of the important
facets of women's lives do not reveal themselves statistically, through a
multitude of records, but are better discovered in specific documents dealing
with controversial or problematic issues. Given such conditions, quantitative
research may lead us to the wrong conclusions.

As mentioned earlier, court records were also clearly biased, and, as a result,
silent on many issues where social norms did not coincide with the written law
upheld by the court. Matters concerning such diverse issues as puberty,
virginity, relations between wives and concubines, were seldom brought to
court. Male­dominated families tended to keep issues related to women within
the private domain. Other details, such as whether a specific woman wore a
veil, seemed too trivial to record. 17 In some cases the authorities,
represented by the qadi and his officials, may have conspired with their
subjects to hide certain facts. The sijill, for example, records no murders of
daughters, wives or sisters who were suspected of shaming their male relatives
through promiscuous sexual behavior. Though it is possible that no such
murders were committed, there are some indications that this was not the case.
A clue to this silence might be found in the relative abundance of reports of
accidents involving women and girls in the city and the surrounding villages. In
cases of unnatural death a team of investigators was sent to the scene. But
when the victim was female, the evidence supplied by (usually male) relatives
was deemed sufficient, even when the circumstances surrounding the death
were unusual as in the following case:
Zayid ibn Mutawi' from the village of Bayt Iksa [7 km. west of Jerusalem] arrived
in court, and informed the qadi that his daughter, Banwa, had died. She had
been standing on the roof of his house in the village and, as God willed it (bi­
qada' Allah wa­qadrihi), she suddenly fell. While falling, she toppled a large
boulder that dropped on her head and killed her. The father requested that an
inquest be held, so that he could bury his daughter.

The qadi appointed his secretary, Abu al­Fath al­Dayri, the writer of this record,
who traveled to the village with 'Uthman Çelebi, an official of the Khasikiyya
waqf,18 to which the village belongs. They were joined by 'Abd al­Qadir the
juqdar (cokdar), 19 and by Muhammad ibn Ibrahim the muhdir (muhzir) in the
shari'a court.

When they arrived in the village an inquest was held in the presence of those
mentioned above, as well as Sheikh Dib, Sheikh Muhammad ibn 'Alayan,
Ahmad ibn Zayid, and a group of inhabitants of the village. The girl Banwa was
found lying lifeless near her
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father's house. All those present were interrogated concerning the cause of her
death. All of them repeated her father's story and claimed that no one in the
village was to blame for it. This evidence was heard and noted, and when the
team returned to court, its members filed a detailed report, asking the qadi to
write it down in the sijill. It was recorded in accordance with their request, on 10
Rajab 1100 [30 April 1689]. 20

Reports of this kind, about women who slid into wells, fell off roofs, or were
buried by stone avalanches, are fairly numerous, certainly more so than similar
cases involving men. This may suggest that women worked on roofs, near
wells, or in small stone quarries more than men did, but it is more likely that
these incidents represent attempts to avoid murder charges where questions of
"family honor" were concerned. There might be several other issues where the
sijill's silence is misleading, or where the records hide more than they reveal.
Yet the sijill's meticulous recording of other types of cases involving women,
where the ruling was sometimes clearly in their favor and against male
adversaries, lends more credibility to its testimony and provides a strong basis
for research.

At first glance it seems as though direct evidence in the sijill corroborates

Roger's account. In several cases dealing with matters of morality in the city,
the court's attitude to women is stern and deprecatory. The mere presence of a
woman in a secluded room alone with men who are not her closest relatives is
cause enough for serious punishment:
On the night of 11 Muharram 1091 [11 February 1680], an inquiry was held in a
room in Ya'qubiyya [the Armenian quarter in Jerusalem]. Present were the city's
subashi, Hasan bashsha the juqdar ,21 and several others.

The room was found shut and bolted from without, and was opened in the
presence of all whose names are signed below. Several people were
apprehended: Muhammad ibn 'Abdallah, the Egyptian artisan, a convert to
Islam; 'Awad ibn Jabir and his wife Umm al­Hana' bint Abi al­'Awn; as well as
the two Christians, Mikha'il ibn 'Abbud and Jiryis ibn Hanna. They all sat inside
the room, Umm al­Hana' sitting next to her husband.

Umm al­Hana' and the child sitting in her lap were identified by her father and by
another witness, and the men were all interrogated about the circumstances of
their presence in the room with a woman at night. Muhammad the convert
explained that the room was his lodging, and that Mikha'il and Jiryis came by to
have a chat with him. Umm al­Hana' explained that she and her husband rented
the adjacent yard and that her husband went to the neighbors to ask
 Page 179

for a light to rekindle the fire. She went out to look for him, and as she
approached this room someone pushed her inside and bolted the door behind
her. They remained in their places until the inquiry. Her husband and the others
told the same story.

Next morning they were all brought before the qadi. Presented with the facts,
the qadi found it hard to believe their story, and decided to punish them for
their sins. Muhammad the convert and 'Awad were punished by whipping
(ta'zir) and were later forced to follow a town crier (dalal) who denounced their
sordid, vile deeds, to deter others from following their example. 22

The court was intolerant when rules of separation were breached, even when
there was no proof to sustain the allegation that an unlawful act was actually
committed. For all we know Umm al­Hana' may have participated in an orgy
(although this is unlikely if a child was present). She may have come for a quiet
talk with the neighbors, or just to look for her husband. No proof was needed,
however, and none provided. The scribe did not deem it necessary to tell
future readers of the record the exact nature of the crimes committed, and the
qadi required no further proof or witnesses, precisely because the situation
itself—a woman sitting after dark in a strange room with men she was not
related to, even in the presence of her husband—was a breach of law. It
would appear that women were confined to their own rooms and seldom went
outside.

And yet, a second look at the evidence in the sijill suggests a different outlook
on women and their place in society, and raises some doubts about travelers'
descriptions. Within the restrictive social and cultural system described by
travelers, women had a world of their own, and enjoyed many liberties. Even
the most observant Western travelers failed to capture and encapsulate this
complicated system of gender relations.

Marriage contracts were signed in the shari'a court. All inhabitants of the city
itself were required to register their marriages there, as pointed out in several
fatwas written at the time. Village marriages were registered in a different
manner, by the timar holder or by a waqf official in charge of the village.
These functionaries were also paid a marriage tax (rasm ankiha) for this
registration. It seems likely, therefore, that they kept some sort of ledger to
record marriages, and tried to prevent evasion of payment. Unfortunately we
have no evidence of such records outside the city.23

Records kept in the city show that marriage and divorce, as conducted in
accordance with Islamic law, allowed women some leverage. A woman who
reached the age of majority could demand the annulment of her marriage if it
was conducted without her consent. If married before puberty, she had the
right to cancel the marriage contract upon reaching
 Page 180

puberty or mental maturity, as defined by Muslim jurisprudence. Muslim

women, and at times even Christian women, could file complaints against
parents or brothers who forced them to marry against their will. Sometimes
cases reached the qadi only when a disappointed husband sued his wife,
demanding to consummate the marriage:

Ibrahim ibn Rizqallah, the Christian 24 ironsmith, sues Maryam bint 'Id ibn
Tuqman, a grown girl aged sixteen, whose puberty is proved by menstruation,
as attested to by the women Qadiriyya bint 'Aya and Amina bint Dhu al­Nun.
She was identified in accordance with the law by Sheikh 'Abd al­Rahman ibn
Ridwan, and by Muhammad ibn Salih.

In his plea to the court, the plaintiff claimed he was offered the girl's hand by her
father, whom she had given permission to arrange a marriage contract on her
behalf (bi­l­wikala 'anha), and in accordance with her wishes. In return the
plaintiff paid a mahr25 of forty­five ghorush. He now demands the
consummation of the marriage.

Maryam, the defendant, denied the allegation. She had not given her father
permission, did not consent to the marriage offer, and does not want to be
married to the plaintiff, she said. The qadi then asked Ibrahim to produce legal
evidence proving that Maryam had given her father permission to marry her off
and that she had accepted the marriage. Ibrahim admitted he had no such proof
and demanded that Maryam take an oath. Maryam complied, swearing "by the
almighty God who transmitted the gospels to Jesus son of Mary"26 that she did
not give her father permission, and does not want this marriage.

Taking all this into consideration, the qadi notified the plaintiff that his betrothal
was not valid, and that the marriage contract is null and void. Inscribed in the
sijill on the 14th of Sha'ban 1066 (7 June 1656).27

In spite of her youth, and perhaps deserted by her own family (no family
members signed as witnesses), Maryam bint 'Id demanded the abrogation of a
contract made by her father, and dared to reject her husband before the local
qadi. Many other similar cases involving Muslim and Christian women are
registered in the sijills of Jerusalem and Nabulus. The girl also defended
herself in court without representation by an agent or proxy (wakil, vekil).
This was common in Jerusalem, as in other towns of the Ottoman Empire, and
suggests a measure of independence and freedom of movement for women
that escaped the eye of foreign travelers.28

It is worth noting that in many of these cases, qadis chose to believe women,
ruling against the male parties. This may have reflected shar'ci
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practice, since the onus of proof is usually on the plaintiff. But needless to say,
had qadis wanted to prevent women from obtaining justice, they could easily
have found a way around these stipulations.

Collections of legal opinions from this period include a large number of queries
concerning the rights of women to abrogate a marriage. 29 In many cases the
questions were about young girls married off by their relatives. Sometimes the
contract was signed at birth, to uphold a prior promise, or was part of an
exchange between two families—each family's son marrying the other family's
daughter. Others inquired about women who had reached puberty and were
married off without their knowledge or consent. The mufti was sometimes
asked to offer his opinion on marriages agreed to by the girl's mother, brothers,
cousins or legal guardian without her consent. The large numbers of appeals to
the mufti may suggest that abrogation of marriage by women was not a well­
entrenched norm, and that women probably had to fight to get what was theirs
by law. On the other hand, they demonstrate that women dared walk this
seemingly dangerous path, appealed to muftis and qadis, and were rewarded
by having their marriages abrogated.

In most cases the girl's parents took the mahr (sometimes referred to as
sadaq) paid by the prospective husband, sometimes using it to purchase
furniture and household goods needed by the young couple in their new home.
Part of the mahr may have been set aside for the bride's pre­wedding beauty
preparations, such as the bath, hairdressing and henna. But even in this area,
where custom prevailed, a bride had the right to demand the mahr payment
for herself. In a short legal opinion, one of many on the subject, the mufti
Khayr al­Din al­Ramli was asked: ''In the case of a man who paid a mahr of
eighty­five ghurosh to the bride's father, twenty [also to her father] for her
clothing, and five to her uncle. Does the whole sum belong to her, or to all the
above?" "All is hers," Khayr al­Din replied curtly, "and God knows best" (wa­
Allahu a'lam).30 Cases of women demanding that the money be paid into
their hands are recorded in the sijill as well, and parents were usually
instructed by the qadi to return the money to their daughters?31

Women had the right to demand divorce for a variety of reasons: the
disappearance of a husband for a long period of time; the husband's
impotence; abuse and mistreatment; or even any treatment not befitting her
status in society. Sometimes women demanded the addition of a special clause
to the marriage agreement signed in court, in which the husband vowed to
divorce his wife if certain conditions were not met.32 Many divorce cases
were brought before the Shafi'i qadi (in such cases it was specifically stated
that the Shafi'i qadi was presiding). We do not know whether in these cases
women plaintiffs were Shafi'i by origin, and
 Page 182

came to court knowing that their madhhab would be more lenient in these
matters, or whether they chose to switch over temporarily to this particular
school because of its liberal attitude in dissolving marriage ties. 33

When no convincing legal reason for divorce could be brought up, marriages
were often dissolved by mutual consent (khul'). In many cases the wife
renounced her claim to the mahr, or to that part of it designated as "delayed
mahr" (mu'ajjal), which is supposed to be paid to the wife if the husband dies
or if he chooses to divorce her:
In the shari'a court, Salih Bey, son of the late amir Musa, former governor of
Jerusalem, representing his aunt, Siffiyya khanim, requested hajj 'Ali al­Khuruji,
who represents her husband Ishaq Bey, the za'im34 in Jerusalem, to release the
lady Siffiyya from her marriage bond.35 In return, he promised, a sum of four
hundred ghurosh would be deducted from the delayed mahr of one thousand
ghurosh. Lady Siffiyya, he declared, is also willing to waive her claim to a
divorce allowance (nafaqat 'idda) and all other rights stipulated in the marriage
agreement.

Hajj 'Ali agreed to the request and its conditions, and by the power vested in
him by Ishaq Bey, released lady Siffiyya from the marriage. By so doing, he
divorced the lady from her husband in a legal manner.… The rest of the delayed
mahr [six hundred ghurush] was then paid by 'Ali Bey to Salih Bey, and the
latter declared, in the name of the lady Siffiyya, that she has no further claims
from Ishaq Bey.36

It appears, then, that issues of marriage and divorce were not as one­sided and
male­oriented as Roger and his fellow travelers would have us believe. The
marriage contract was a deal, a business transaction, as Roger described it, but
it was also a two­sided affair, in which the wife had almost as much say as her
husband. Marriage certainly lacked all semblance of Catholic sacrament, and
was hardly reminiscent even of the postmedieval Jewish concept of marriage as
a very meaningful religious event. The rites of marriage suggested a happy
occasion, but the role of religion and allusions to sanctity were limited. Divorce
was quite frequent and usually taken in stride; marriage ties were dissolved
with relative ease by both sides.

For local society marriage was an agreement involving both economic and
social considerations: the husband pledged to see to his wifes economic
welfare and sexual needs. His side of the bargain included taking his bride from
her father's custody or protective sphere into his own. The wife, for her part,
was to bear and raise the children. Village women were expected to
participate in the family's agricultural tasks, but as a rule
 Page 183

women's economic activities were not seen as part of the marriage obligations,
and it was assumed that the wife's property and financial gains were intended
for her own use. An agreement was signed and guarantees posted in the form
of mahr and dowry. When, for some reason, the marriage did not achieve its
intended goals, there were few qualms about dissolving it, and in most cases
the wife returned to her parents' house.

As for seclusion, in sharp contrast to the accounts of the travelers, the sijill
describes women who are not confined to their homes. Women left their
houses and visited female neighbors, friends and relatives. They conducted
business affairs in an admirable manner that often discloses an understanding of
the city's commercial world and a grasp of the economy. 37 Peasant women
often worked in fields and quarries, of course, sometimes even outside the
village. Some, in village and city alike, were often engaged in large­scale land
transactions. A substantial part of the transactions in recorded sales deeds
involved women buying and selling property. In many cases women
represented themselves in court, rather than being represented by a wakil or a
male member of their family.

Some of these transactions may be explained by the fact that women were
entitled to inherit part of their parents' possessions according to the shari'a.
Shari'a laws of inheritance are relatively complicated. In principle, individuals
cannot bequeath their property as they see fit. Most of the deceased persorn's
estate is divided according to a very detailed proportional formula which takes
into consideration the relation of prospective heirs to the deceased and their
gender. According to this formula a woman is entitled to half the amount
inherited by a male in the same relation to the deceased. A daughter is entitled
to half the amount inherited by a son, a sister to half her brother's share.38

In her research on Egypt in the nineteenth century, Judith Tucker has found that
women did not inherit land. Although most land was officially miri (owned by
the state), the fallahin considered it private property to be passed on to their
heirs. In this case fathers disregarded the law, and bequeathed their land
almost exclusively to their sons.39 In the district of Jerusalem, some two
hundred years earlier, land definitions were much the same. People tended to
regard their land as private property even when it was officially considered
government land. Here too, in many instances, daughters or wives did not get
their share, and in several cases were compelled to request the qadi's
assistance,40 but in most cases women did in fact receive their allocated share
of the inheritance, including land and property41

Women also received money and property as mahr when they married, or as
delayed mahr when they were divorced by their husbands. Some preferred to
sell their property and to engage in moneylending. In several
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cases they lent large sums of money to the Jewish and Christian communities,
perhaps because it was easier to demand interest on loans outside the Muslim
community, where profit from interest was frowned upon. 42

But all this cannot account for the volume of trade carried out by women. Not
just selling, but often buying, renting and investing in land and merchandise.
They bought houses, fields, vineyards and orchards, sold merchandise of
various kinds, and drafted sophisticated contracts in the process. In some
cases women joined together to defend their inheritance rights.43 As in other
regions of the Ottoman Empire, an agent or representative often represented a
woman in court. But this device was used more as a convenience than as a
means for further seclusion of women. Women from all levels of society often
came to court themselves to present their claims to the qadi.

According to Suraya Faroqhi, the number of women and men buying land in
Anatolia grew considerably during the seventeenth century. Such a trend,
which was also apparent in Jerusalem at the time, may have stemmed from a
change in agrarian relations. Land, which was controlled firmly by the state and
monitored through frequent surveys in the sixteenth century, was not as
carefully controlled in succeeding years. State lands reverted into the hands of
villagers and notables, who regarded them as freehold. People in and around
Jerusalem bought and sold property in large quantities. In many cases women
sold to other women, recording their transactions in the sijill:
In the shari'a court, Rumiyya bint Ahmad al­'Attar from the village of Jibaliya
bought from Zahiriyya bint Shihab al­Din al­Jibali, and the latter sold unto her,
what is hers, forms part of her property, to which she has the right of usufruct,
and her hand is laid upon.45 The property sold is twelve of twenty­four qirat,46
of the vineyard in the village of Bayt Lahiyya in the vicinity of the city of Gaza.
… This vineyard includes various trees, among them pomegranates, grapevines
and palm trees. The price is ten ghurosh, paid in court by the buyer to the
seller.47

As typical of Jerusalem and Nabulus as it is of Gaza, this record conveys a

spirit of confidence and freedom in women's dealings inside a male­dominated
and male­centered world. The property in this case, as in many others, is
situated far away from both women's residences, implying that such deals were
for business purposes, not necessarily an attempt to enlarge the family's estate.
It is worth noting that both women represented themselves in court (although
they could have sent a wakil). This fact confirms the assumption that women in
both positions—seller and buyer—often
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conducted business by and for themselves. Otherwise a husband or father

would have come as a representative, since physical presence in court was not
required in such transactions.

Formal entry into specifically male professions was almost impossible. No

doubt high­ranking women exerted a considerable deal of influence on the
conduct of government affairs, as women in the imperial harem did at the same
period. 48 Yet there were no women in military or government occupations, no
women were appointed governors or deputies, of course, and none fulfilled
any sort of formal administrative duty, even at the lowest levels. In the sijills of
Jerusalem and Nabulus for this period, no women are mentioned as timar
holders (a rare occurrence anywhere in the Ottoman Empire), although some
women have been charged with managing timars as legal guardians of their
minor sons. Often a young son inherited his father's timar while still too young
to administer it himself. In such cases his mother would sometimes temporarily
assume control of the fief.49

Religious professions were just as difficult to penetrate. A few exceptions

existed, however, suggesting that these were not considered an exclusive male
domain. In one or two cases women were given the task of reciting chapters of
the Qur'an in a mosque, usually as a result of a specific stipulation made by the
founder of a waqf. In other cases women of prestigious families or daughters
of famous deceased religious scholars were considered part of the notable elite
and given allowances from the surra grant from Istanbul to the ulema of
Jerusalem, and from thejizya revenues of jerusalem.50

Though there are no direct indications in the sijill, it seems probable that in
contrast to Roger's description, women received a measure of education to
guide them through the complex economic and legal facets of their lives. This is
suggested by the famous Ottoman traveler Evliya çelebi, who visited Jerusalem
in the second half of the century. Unlike Roger, Evliya Çelebi was impressed
by the women he met, and in particular by their upbringing and education.
Women in Jerusalem were probably not very different in these respects from
women in other, more central regions of the Ottoman Empire, as described by
Haim Gerber and R. C. Jennings in their researches on Bursa and Kaiseri, and
by Leslie Peirce in her study of the imperial harem.51

Court Scribes and Traveling Ethnographers

How, then, are we to measure the different contribution and the relative
importance of these two kinds of sources? Should we adopt a distant, non­
judgmental view that considers all sources biased and therefore transmitting
 Page 186

a subjective reality, or is there some way of evaluating historical evidence and

measuring such sources against each other?

The books and diaries written by travelers in the seventeenth century were
described by their authors as documents which reflected an empirical reality.
They all carry descriptive names, very similar to each other, such as Journey
to the Holy Land, or Voyage dans la Palestine, hinting at the outset that the
reader is about to read an "objective" report on things observed in faraway
lands. Lack of bias or objectivity, however, were not their most notable
qualities. The beliefs, predispositions and biases of these travelers were a
distorted, if fascinating, mirror for the sights they saw. Furthermore, their
observations were directed at a certain reading audience and were expected to
conform to the images and demands of that audience, to confirm its worldview.
In addition to all this, as Roger Chartier has shown, 52 the process of editing
and publishing itself, by the author or by subsequent editors, frequently
changed the emphasis and content of such books, removing them even further
away from the original "reality" they witnessed. In this sense the historian
should be wary of using them as "fact quarries."53

The records of the Jerusalem shari'a court, the sijills, are more difficult to
assess. Maintaining the very rigid structure of official documents, with their
flowery language and customary wordings, these records often deliberately
conceal more than they intend to reveal, and create an artificial barrier of
formality between the text and the reader. It is also difficult to measure the
veracity of some of the sijill's information. Court action was all too often used
as a formal legal device: a lawsuit would sometimes be filed, for instance, just
to test a waqf deed and make sure it was watertight and immune from
challenge by other interested parties. In such circumstances the reader may
assume he/she is looking at an authentic legal case unfolding in court, while the
participants all knew they were staging a play the results of which were
determined in advance.

Furthermore, those engaged in the task of compiling the sijills were part of a
very clearly defined social group. They were all Muslim males, with some sort
of religious education or affiliation. As such, the qadi, chief scribe and other
court officials tended to prefer members of their own social group to others,
whether women, minorities, soldiers, or even members of the governing elite.

But beside the clear bias in their outlook, court records preserve documentary
qualities which make them a deeper reflection of reality. Shari'a court records
are not mere verdicts based on the shari'a or some other code of law. They
include by definition the testimonies of many people, frequently frowned upon
by the court; they were not written for the public at large, but rather for the
court officials themselves, and were primarily
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meant to serve as notes for further reference. Neither was there one common
thread of narrative to bind the records together. They were not intended to
present a consistent worldview or a thorough description. They were very
rarely personal, and contained as concise as possible a description of the
goings­on in court. They were rarely edited after the initial summing up of the
case, and remained in a relatively crude form, revealing facts that might have
been erased had an editor gone over the text. Sometimes, in fact, records were
stricken out with a few swift strokes of the scribe's pen, but are still readable.
As a result, the sijill depicts a reality that is much more chaotic, varied and
colorful (and consequently less superficial) than that described by the travelers.

A Separate Network

In women's history, as in other historical fields, we should therefore accord the

sijill a higher rank on the documentary scale than travel texts. If that is the
case, we should now turn to the travelers' works and look for their motivations
in describing women the way they did. This should be done not in order to
denigrate the travelers' accounts and show their inaccuracies, but rather in
order to bring to the fore the cultural dimensions embedded in these texts and
to present their vantage point, a view that did not confine itself to the writings
of travelers but found its way into their culture and eventually into the local
culture as well. 54

The basis for this particular inclination of many travelers may have arisen from
their own conceptions of Western women. European travelers had no other
yardstick by which to measure what they saw around them; the status of
women in their own societies was the only parallel on which they could draw to
understand another culture. In the region they visited, systems of social control
depended heavily on a strict separation of the sexes in the internal sphere, and
on rigid laws of dress and conduct in external spheres. All "private" contact
between men and women who were not very close relatives or married to each
other was forbidden and severely punished.

In the eyes of a seventeenth­century French or English spectator, who in most

cases did not understand the principles of Islamic law, and in whose culture
women were free to move as they pleased between the internal and external
spheres (interpreted by the travelers as private and public, or female and male,
to match their own definitions55 ), this state of affairs was seen as blatant
discrimination against women. They were forbidden entry into the male world,
and were cut off from men's social life as a whole. This, however, was an
inaccurate view of a culture that refused to present itself openly to the outsider.
As a matter of fact, these
 Page 188

women were part of a separate social, economic and cultural network, at times
richer and more advanced than that of their female contemporaries in the West.
56

This network was set apart from corresponding male systems, yet was just as
intense. The interaction of women with the surrounding world was channeled
through closed circuits to which men had almost no access. In the travelers'
world separation was a negative value, meaning that women were barred even
from the most basic freedoms appropriated by male members of society. But
although "separate" was clearly not "equal, and in many respects women were
still marginalized, this separation actually tended to reduce oppression. It is true
that women wore veils, that they were not free to come and go as they
pleased, that they could be punished for being in the company of strange men.
But this segregation also allowed them to maintain their private property, to
conduct business and to represent their own interests in court. For some
women even the veil paradoxically represented a kind of liberty, an ability to
see and be invisible at the same time.54

Ironically, it may have been the impact of Western social norms on local
society that undermined the status of women in later centuries. Muslim norms
of separation remained as strict and as culturally dominant as before, but
women's freedom within their own networks was curtailed to fit Western
cultural codes (true or imagined) assigning women the role of "ladies" who
should not engage in commerce; what Judy Mabro calls "the idea of
refinement," a relatively new concept even in Western Europe. These ideas,
which gained currency in the Arab world in the mid­nineteenth century were
translated into economic and social practices which prevented women from
expanding their role in society and the economy. The Western Christian image
of marriage as a sacred institution, rather than as a partnership agreement, was
introduced into Middle Eastern culture, and later accepted as a local norm in
the higher echelons of society. It too had a negative impact on the status of
women, limiting their access to court to seek dissolution of marriage. The
secularization of education in the nineteenth century, which drew women away
from Islamic law, may have reduced their knowledge of that law and limited
their access to divorce, at least for a time.58

Evidence from seventeenth­century Jerusalem and from other provinces

demonstrates clearly that like any other historical subject, including the realm of
Islamic law itself, women's history changed over time and from place to place.
Women's lives in "traditional" Islamic societies today do not necessarily
resemble those of previous centuries. It is no doubt true that, all things
considered, women's status in the district of Jerusalem in the seventeenth
century was considerably lower than that of men of the
 Page 189

same social stratum. But the normative system was not entirely asymmetrical;
women were not condemned to a life of seclusion and marginality while men
went about their business. Both sides were part of a restrictive system based
upon separation of the sexes. This system provided women a certain leeway, a
relative measure of freedom to act in their separate networks, provided they
kept their distance. The public eye of the law, as well as the eyes of neighbors
and relatives, made sure the lines were not crossed by either sex. It is precisely
because of the relative freedom women had in their own networks that any
infringement of the delicate balance was punished, regardless of the actual sin
or crime committed.
 Index

  
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Conclusion
There were no great upheavals or dramatic turns in seventeenth century
Jerusalem. The wars were short and inconsequential, and most local power
games unfolded behind the scenes. But the calm surface was deceiving, belied
by the storm that erupted at the end of the century—the people's revolt of
1703. In this respect the revolt is part of the previous century, and a
culmination of several processes which took place in preceding decades. It
destroyed the old leadership, and released sentiments of rage and pain pent up
for many years. These events and their aftermath cannot be understood outside
the historical context leading to the revolt.

Located neither on the frontline, nor near the imperial center, the district was
not a part of the empire that government attention focused on. Though holy and
revered in Muslim eyes, it was a typical Ottoman subprovince, and its history
reflects that of other regions in the empire, especially those with a majority of
Arabic speakers. Jerusalem and its periphery did not constitute an imminent
danger to the security of the Ottoman Empire, and consequently was not often
submitted to the kind of abrupt change and panic­stricken activity seen in other
regions of the empire in times of war or revolt. Ottoman rule here was
continuous and relatively stable. In this respect Jerusalem may provide a better
example than other regions of the pristine shape of Ottoman intentions,
policies, and statecraft, as they found expression in provincial administration.

After the conquest, Ottoman rule in the Arab provinces was consolidated
through local governing households. Some of them were established by
governors who were typical products of the central devsirme system, while
others were local tribal chiefs, or military slaves recruited and trained in the
households of officers and men of state. Such governors founded their own
lineages, and attempted to secure government positions for sons and slaves,
preferably in the area they chose as their home. The emerging governing elite
also established and strengthened its ties with the notables of the district, led by
the heads of religious institutions. Ties thus established benefited both sides.
The governors found a loyal ally to help secure and legitimize their rule in order
to entrench themselves in the
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area and bequeath their positions and possessions to their sons. The notables,
for their part, basked in the governors' protection, and were able to put their
special privileges as members of the askeri class to full use.

As the years of the seventeenth century wore on, the central government
withdrew from day­to­day administration of the area, and enclosed itself in a
cocoon of the capital's affairs. The provinces were often neglected, or left to
the provincial, or even the district governor to oversee. In time district
governors mastered the sort of political dexterity needed to maintain their
positions, and retain the favor of provincial governors, the central bureaucracy,
and the sultan. In Palestine several households became lineages, and these
lineages combined through marriage and economic transactions to form one
extended dynasty controlling several districts at once. Thus they were able to
shrink or expand their dominions to accommodate the center's pressures.

Their knowledge of the area, its problems and its inhabitants, and their ability
to incorporate the local notable elite in administrating the district, paved the
way for widening circles of the population to identify with the locally based
ruling elite. Evidence for the first part of the century suggests that Jerusalem
during that period had a relatively stable and coherent social structure, and that
various parts of that society found a modus vivendi with the government and
with other components of society. Perhaps more than in any previous period
the bedouin were incorporated into the social fabric, both economically and
politically.

The situation began to change in the 1660s. A central government invigorated

by the policies of the new grand vezir Mehmet Köprülü, sought to reestablish
its control in the provinces. Local governing dynasties were gradually
eliminated, their households dispersed, and new governors were appointed by
the center. Just like their predecessors, the new governors learned how to
manipulate the economic and political ambiguity that was still very much in
existence in the region, in order to continue exploiting the population. Unlike
the old guard, however, they did not know, nor did they care about the
intricate web of local social relations. Having come to tidy up the stables, as it
were, they distanced themselves from the notables, their only possible local
allies in administrating the district, and having impaired the special relationship
painstakingly built with the bedouin over the last decades, they stood aloof
from village, tribe and city population alike.

Exploitation and the heavy tax load, hitherto borne with much hardship by the
taxpaying subjects, now became all but unbearable. The pride and reputation
of local notables, the traditional leaders of society, were hit hardest. Forsaken
by the new governors, they joined the growing camp of the oppressed and the
economically exploited. As the seventeenth
 Page 193

century drew to a close, frequent petitions were sent jointly by notables and
other representatives of the population to the sultan's palace in Istanbul, to
complain about injustice, irreligious behavior and corruption in local
government. In most cases the plaintiffs were disappointed, their complaints
received dismissive responses, and the new governors were allowed to carry
on. What the local notables saw as rude and cruel behavior on the part of the
government's representatives, was apparently understood at the imperial center
as a measure of harshness necessary to establish law and order in mutinous
territory. When the revolt finally broke out at the beginning of the eighteenth
century, the local populace saw it as an outcome of these harsh new
centralizing policies, while from the central government's vantage point it was
construed as the culmination of long years of anarchy of exactly the kind that
new policies sought to rectify.

Long­term processes such as these provide an insight into the state of affairs in
the empire as a whole. From a provincial perspective the impression of decline
attributed to the first half of the seventeenth century (the so­called ''sultanate of
the women") so prominent in the writings of central government bureaucrats,
was attenuated, and in some cases entirely missing. The early years of the
century may have been a period of political or military decline in the Ottoman
center, but subjects in distant provinces saw things differently. It was only in
the last decades of the century, when the empire regained a sense of pride,
confidence and self­esteem, that the subjects in the provinces felt a change for
the worse. This change, a consequence of reforms in government, and of a
renewed effort of centralization, brought about a series of revolts in the Arab
provinces in the last decades of the eighteenth century.

Another all­imperial research concern which finds expression in this region is

the study of integration into the emerging world economy, with its Western
European core. The economic system characteristic of most parts of the
Ottoman Empire in the previous century can be described as a closed
economic structure satisfying most local demand for basic products by local
supply. This system was centrally controlled from Istanbul: taxes were defined,
assessed and collected; prices were regulated; foreign trade was limited to
luxury items and to the emerging firearms technology. At the turn of the
sixteenth century the tide began to change. Central control dissipated, and the
system became more flexible, not as rigidly regulated from above. The new
economic spirit of laissez­faire made it possible for local markets to open up to
Europe and its commercial advances. But contrary to our expectations, this
new spirit, which should be attributed more to decentralization than to
deliberate policy, did not induce a serious measure of dependency on foreign
trade, and did not
 Page 194

lead to peripheralization. On the contrary, for various reasons the economy of

France, the leading European power to have established trading depots in the
Palestinian and Lebanese littoral, was more dependent on continued supply
from the Levant than vice versa.

Furthermore, such an attempt to establish commercial contacts in seventeenth­

century Palestine, on the grand scale required in order to turn the region into an
economic periphery, was doomed to fail. The same trend of economic
decentralization responsible for the openness towards Europe became an
insurmountable obstacle when European merchants tried to reach agreements
on a larger scale with local key figures. Ironically, it was the lack of any
dominant power that barred the way to peripheralization. In the district of
Jerusalem, as elsewhere, there were no merchants, governors or leaders with
enough authority to steer the economy in any single direction. Only when rule
was centralized, or in the hands of very influential local rulers such as Fakhr al­
Din II in Lebanon, or Dahir al­'Umar and al­Jazzar in northern Palestine a
century later, did European efforts to penetrate and control local economy find
a foothold in the region. All in all the importance and influence of commerce
with Europe during the 1600s was negligible, and the influence of European
merchants on local economy, local politics or local culture, was hardly felt.

Finally, when we consider the history of Jerusalem as a province of the

Ottoman Empire, we may conclude that the paradigm of rise and decline, so
dominant in Ottoman historiography, cannot assist us in trying to interpret
Ottoman provincial history. Theories seeking to replace this paradigm with one
that sees the Ottoman Empire in alternating cycles of centralization and
decentralization, are better capable of interpreting the events and processes of
the seventeenth century. A period of decentralization at the beginning of the
century ushered in a series of changes in the government, the social structure,
and the economic and cultural atmosphere. The subsequent attempt to
recentralize the government brought some of these trends to an abrupt end,
leading to frustration and violence.

But although these notions are better suited to explain and interpret Ottoman
history, to a certain extent they too are still prisoners of the former decline
paradigm. They contain an implied assumption that decentralization is
tantamount to decline. The Ottomans, we are told, managed to survive for so
long because they could adapt. When the going got tough, the central
government folded its petals and decentralized, until the time came to regain full
control. Such periods of centralization are often seen as times of improvement,
in which the Empire resumed its ascent.

From the center's point of view this may be so. Centralization seems to reflect
a stronger, more effective government, and therefore at least a
 Page 195

measure of security for the subjects. But in the provinces, in the empire's
backyard, as it were, things were very different. In Jerusalem it was the period
of decentralization that brought about a relative improvement in security and
the quality of life for various groups in local society. On the other hand, the
attempt made by the central government to centralize rule in the second half of
the century, the effort to eliminate local dynasties and appoint new governors,
brought about a rift between the government and its allies in the region,
continued destruction of the countryside and a total breakdown of trust
between ruler and ruled. For local inhabitants, this indicated rapid decline.

Conditions throughout the century may have been unpropitious for a

centralizing reform, such as that carried out more than a century later in the
tanzimat period. The devsirme system, the imperial factory that turned out
generation after generation of well­trained, talented, disciplined governors and
administrators, reached its apex in the previous century. Now its wheels
ground to a halt. No new governing elite was created in the center. Its place as
the main repository for administrators was taken by the households of
provincial rulers, and by warlike elements such as the bedouin or mountain
village populations.

But in order to avail itself of this new source of manpower the central
government had to relinquish a measure of its authority, to do away with some
of its former privileges and prerogatives. Under these conditions, however, any
attempt to recentralize the government based on administrators dispatched
from the center, was doomed to fail. As long as the central government
accepted these new rules of the game, albeit reluctantly, its suzerainty was
accepted, and in most cases its dues were paid. The trouble began when,
under the influence of a new, dynamic vezirate, the Ottoman imperial center
attempted to regain full control. The lack of properly trained governors and
administrators, and the measure of autonomy gained by the provinces thus far,
made the task impossible. By shattering the delicate social and political balance
of the region, it destroyed any vestiges of legitimation, and postponed the hope
of restoring centralized rule for a very long time. From this perspective the rise
of local potentates in Palestine, as in other parts of the Ottoman empire, at the
beginning of the eighteenth century, is as much a consequence of the failure of
centralization efforts in the second part of the seventeenth century, as it is a
consequence of the empire's renewed cycle of decentralization in the eighteenth
century.
 Page 197

Notes

Introduction

1. P. M. Holt, Egypt and the Fertile Crescent, 1516–1922 (Ithaca, 1966),

33–45; Andrew Hess, "The Ottoman Conquest of Egypt and the Beginning of
the Sixteenth­Century World War," International Journal of Middle East
Studies (1973): 55–76. Yitzhaq Ben­Zvi, Eretz­Yisra'el ve­yishuva Bi ­
yemey hashilton ha­Othmani (Jerusalem, 1979), 3–14; Stanford Shaw,
History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey (Cambridge, 1976),
I:83–85.

2. Holt, 38–40; Ben­Zvi, ibid.

3. Ehud Toledano, "Sanjaq Yerushalayim ba­me'ah ha­tet zayin—hityashvut

kafrit u­megamot demografiyot," in A. Cohen, Prakim be­toldot
Yerushalayim be­reshit ha­tkufa ha­'Othmanit (Jerusalem, 1979), 61–62.

4. Amnon Cohen and Bernard Lewis, Population and Revenue in the

Towns of Palestine in the Sixteenth Century (Princeton, 1978), 18–26, 33–
4, 43, 170.; W. D. Hütteroth and Kamal Abdulfattah, Historical Geography
of Palestine, TransJordan and Southern Syria in the Late Sixteenth
Century (Erlangen, 1977). It should be stressed here that all assessments of
population in the period under discussion are inaccurate. Some of these
assessments are based on tapu­tahrir surveys made by the Ottomans several
times in the sixteenth century, but these surveys were conducted for other
purposes and were never intended to be more than approximations of
population and revenue in the surveyed area.

5. Hütteroth and Abdulfattah, 101, 104; Cohen and Lewis, 42.

6. Amnon Cohen, Economic Life in Ottoman Jerusalem (Cambridge,

1989), 119–126; Idem and Elisheva Simon­Pikali, Yehudim be­bet ha­
mishpat ha­Muslemi (Hebrew; Jerusalem, 1993).

7. Amnon Cohen, Palestine in the Eighteenth Century (Jerusalem, 1973),

312–325.
 Page 198

1. Zooming In

1. On the religious, pilgrimage­oriented nature of travel prior to the eighteenth

century, and the beginnings of secularization, see Billie Melman, Women's
Orients: English Women and the Middle East, 1718–1918 (Ann Arbor,
1992), 14–16.

2. Nathaniel Crouch, Two Journeys to Jerusalem (London, 1699, SOAS

library), 74–75.

3. W. Forster, The Travels of John Sanderson in the Levant (London,

1931), 112. See also Eugène Roger, La Terre Sainte, Ou Description
topographique très particulière de la Terre de promission (Paris, 1664),
3–4.

4. du Rozel, Voyage de Jerusalem, 114–15; Journey to the Holy Land

(British Library Manuscript), fol. 141b; Crouch, 84; Henry Moundrel, A
Journey from Aleppo to Jerusalem at 1697, in Wright Thomas (ed.), Early
Travels in Palestine (New York, 1968); Laurent d'Arvieux, Voyage dans la
Palestine (Amsterdam, 1718), 39; Masson, Histoire du Commerce
Français dans le Levant au 17é siècle (Paris, 1896); Jean Doubdan, Le
Voyage de la Terre Sainte (Paris, 1661), 36. See also Amnon Cohen,
"Ottoman Rule and the Re­emergence of the coast of Palestine," Revue de
l'Occident Musulman et de la Mediterranée 39. 1 (1985): 164–175.

5. Journey to the Holy Land, fols. 141b–42b. See also Crouch, 57.

6. Ibid.

7. J. Thevenot, The Travels of M. de Thevenot into the Levant (London,

1687), 361.

8. The Galilee was included for most of the period in the sanjaq of Safad,
sometimes part of the province of Damascus, and sometimes united for
political reasons with the province of Sidon (Sayda).

9. Roger, 3–6; Doubdan, 38–39; Maundrel, 431–34; Sandys, Travels,

Containing a History of the Original of the Turkish Empire (London,
1670), 150; Crouch, 9; du Rozel, 30–32.

10. Journey to the Holy Land, fols. 141b–42b. See also: du Rozel, 24, 32,
114–5.

11. Forster, 48. See also ibid., 112; Morison, 223–24.

12. Morison, 224; Forster, 48, 112.

13. Forster, 100.

14. Doubdan, 40; Journey to the Holy Land, fol. 141.

15. Ibid.

16. Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 102–5, 107–16; du Rozel,

36.
 14. Doubdan, 40; Journey to the Holy Land, fol. 141.

15. Ibid.

16. Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 102–5, 107–16; du Rozel, 
36.

17. Morison, 224; d'Arvieux, 124–26.

18. This refers to the site of Nabi Musa, the burial place of Moses, which 
according to Muslim tradition is on the way to Jericho. Moses is known in 
Islam as kalim allah (the one who conversed with God).

  
 Page 199

19. The Khasikiyya waqf was the main charitable endowment in Jerusalem,
established by Khasiki Hurrem Sultan (Roxellana), wife of Süleyman the
Magnificent, in 1552. Tax payments from several villages, including Bayt Iksa
and Bayt Liqya, belonged to the waqg.

20. (fa ­na'muru man lahu wilayat ta'dibihim wa­l­khuruj min haqqihim
bi­ta'dibihim). This refers apparently to the officials of the waqf.

21. Jerusalem Sijill (JS) 183:103 (awa'il Rabi' al­thani 1091/May 1680). See
also Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine, 98–99.

22. Max Weber, The City (London, 1958), 65–85. A different view of
Western cities is suggested by Braudel, who sees the village and the city in
early modern Europe not as two separate entities, but rather as a continuum of
social and economic activities. See F. Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism
15th–18th Century, vol. I: The Structure of Everyday Life (London, 1981),
pp. 479–89. I would like to thank Professor Halil Inalcik for introducing me to
the complexities of this issue. His explanations, as well as a lecture he
presented at the CIEPO conference in Jerusalem in 1990, serve as a basis for
this debate.

23. Weber, The City, 82.

24. G. Von Grunebaum, "The Structure of the Muslim Town," in idem, (ed.),
Islam: Essays in the Nature and Growth of a Cultural Tradition (London,
1965), 141–58.

25. Ira Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge,
Mass., 1967), 107–13.

26. Ira Lapidus, "Muslim Cities and Islamic Societies," in idem, (ed.), Middle
Eastern Cities (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1969), 73.

27. Janet Abu­Lughod, "The Islamic City—Historic Myth, Islamic Essence,

and Contemporary Relevance," International Journal of Middle East
Studies 19 (1987): 155–59.

28. Ibid., 160. See also A. Hourani, "The Islamic City" in The Emergence of
the Modern Middle East (London, 1981), 19–35. It seems that many of Abu
Lughod's assumptions already appear in this essay, which is actually the
foreword of: A. Hourani and S. M. Stern, The Islamic City (Oxford, 1970).
The book itself is the outcome of a symposium held in Oxford in 1965.

29. Ibid., 161–62.

30. Ibid., 162–69.

31. Suraya Faroqhi, Men of Modest Substance: House Owners and House
Property in 17th­Century Ankara and Kayseri (Cambridge, 1987) p. 220–
221. See also André Raymond, "Islamic City, Arab city: Orientalist Myths and
Recent Views" British Journal of Middle East Studies, 21 (1994) 3–18.

32. Crouch, 72–73.

 Property in 17th­Century Ankara and Kayseri (Cambridge, 1987) p. 220–
221. See also André Raymond, "Islamic City, Arab city: Orientalist Myths and
Recent Views" British Journal of Middle East Studies, 21 (1994) 3–18.

32. Crouch, 72–73.

  
 Page 200

33. Sobashi (Turk. subasi—an officer in charge of public order). The city's
sobashi was usually a high­ranking officer in the district's administration.

34. Crouch, 72–73.

35. Basbakanlik Arsivi (BBA), Zeyl­i Mühimme, 11:98, no. 434 (awakhir
Rajab 1108/ 21 November 1697); Forster, 122; Journey to the Holy Land,
fol. 143.

36. In Ottoman terminology the mi'mar bashi (mimar basi in Turkish) was
both an architect and an engineer; these two professions were not
differentiated at the time. In times of war, the mi'mar bashi was sent to the
front and put in charge of constructing fortifications, and planning battle engines
and demolitions. See Mehmet Zaki Pakalin, Osmanli Tarih Deyimleri ve
Terimleri (Istanbul, 1946), II:534.

37. About the dhira' (usually referred to as arsin in Turkish, see Midhat
Sertoglu, Osmanli Tarih Lugati (Istanbul, 1986), 19.

38. Jerusalem Siljill (JS), 107:247, no. 1093 (20 Rab' awwal 1033/ 12
January 1624); see also: ibid., 98:108, no. 624 (29 Shawwal 1024/ 21
November 1615).

39. JS, 107:351, no. 1518 (Rab' al­thani 1033/ January–February 1624).

40. Public Records Office (PRO), SP97, p. 94 (16 May 1624). About
Ottoman views of the wall and its function, see also Amnon Cohen, Economic
Life in Ottoman Jerusalem (Cambridge, 1989), 4.

41. Jsijill, 107:538 (24 Safar 1033/ 21 December 1623); no. 802 (28 Safar
1033/ 21 December 1623). See also ibid., 98:108, no. 624 (29 Shawwal
1024/ 21 November 1615).

42. A. Rabbath, Documents inédits pour servir à l'histoire du

Christianisme en Orient (Paris, 1905–1911; repr. New York, 1973), 344–
45. See also Minna Rozen, Horvot Yerushalayim (Hebrew; Tel­Aviv, 1981),
47

43. Doubdan, 330–31: "que les religieux faisaient une citadelle pour battre la
ville en ruyne, et que par ce moyen ils se rendraient bien­tôt les maistres."

44. On relations between Jews and Christians in Jerusalem, and on rare

instances of intellectual contact between them, see Minna Rozen, The Jewish
Community in Jerusalem in the Seventeenth Century (Hebrew; Jerusalem,
1984) 75–92. On relations with the Muslim community, see ibid., 64–74.

45. See Cornell H. Fleischer, "The Lawgiver as Messiah: The Making of the
Imperial Image in the Reign of Süleyman," in Gilles Veinstein (ed.), Soleiman
le Magnifique et son temps (Paris, 1992), 164–69

46. Tapu­tahrir surveys were carried out by the Ottomans once every several
years in all Ottoman territories until the seventeenth century. These surveys
assessed the taxable land and property, and the amount of tax to be paid by
each village, tribe or guild. On Tapu­tahrir surveys
 le Magnifique et son temps (Paris, 1992), 164–69

46. Tapu­tahrir surveys were carried out by the Ottomans once every several
years in all Ottoman territories until the seventeenth century. These surveys 
assessed the taxable land and property, and the amount of tax to be paid by 
each village, tribe or guild. On Tapu­tahrir surveys

  
 Page 201

and their implementation in Palestine, see Amnon Cohen and Bernard

Lewis, Population and Revenue in the Towns of Palestine in the
Sixteenth Century, (Princeton, 1978), Amy Singer, "Ottoman Officials
and Palestinian Peasants: Rural Administration in the Sancak of Jerusalem
in the Mid­Sixteenth Century," unpublished Ph.D. disseration, Princeton
University, 1989, and also idem, Palestinian Peasants and Ottoman
Officials: Rural Administration around Sixteenth Century Jerusalem
(Cambridge, 1994).

47. Cohen and Lewis, 34–41.

48. See, for example, Jews buying houses from Muslims in the Risha
neighborhood—JS, 107:324, no. 1401 (20 Rabi' al­Thani 1033/ 10 February
1624); Fakhr al­Din ibn Zakariyya, son of the Mufti, buying part of a house in
the Jewish quarter—ibid., 125:120, no. 511 (3 Ramadan 1045/ 10 February
1636); Muammad al­'Asali, a prominent merchant, buys a house in the Jewish
quarter—153:65 (Dhu al­Hijja 1085/ March 1674). In this connection, see
also Cohen and Lewis. A similar situation existed in eighteenth century Aleppo,
where quarters usually consisted of one majority ethnic or religious group, but
people of all sects resided practically anywhere. In Aleppo the process of
separation was apparently not in an active phase. See Marcus, The Middle­
East on the Eve of Modernity: Aleppo in the Eighteenth Century (New
York, 1989), 315–322.

49. See Marcus, 314–15.

50. On the residence of the 'Asalis, see JS, 177:19 (awasit Jumada al­akhira
1085/ Mid­August 1674); 191:139 (awakhir Rajab 1100/ Mid­May 1689);
191:163 (awakhir Sha'ban 1100 mid­June 1689). Residence in Bab Hutta:
85:28, no. 39 (awakhir Sha'ban 1013/ mid­January 1605); 85:266, no. 1549
(18 Rajab 1014/ 29 November 1605); 168:92 (9 Rajab 1078/ 25 December
1667); 177:2 (awakhir Shawwal 1085/ end of January 1675); 177:97
(Muharam 1086/ April 1675) and many more. On local notable families, see
chapter 3.

51. Moshe Perlmann, "A Seventeenth­Century Exhortation Concerning al­

Aqsa," Israel Oriental Studies 3 (1973): 286–91.

52. By "secular" I refer to activities not directly related to religion, not to any
denial of faith.

53. Aga is a title of an Ottoman officer, covering a wide range of duties and
ranks.

54. The qadi in Jerusalem was one of the senior qadis in the Ottoman Empire,
who bore the title of molla. His jurisdiction—the district of Jerusalem—was
termed mevleviyet.

55. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, IX:463. Evliya is mistaken in some of the

definitions he offers. The muhzir basi, for example, was mainly in charge of
summoning people and accompanying them to court. See
 Page 202

Pakalin, II:572. It is not clear whether these heads of guilds mentioned at

the end are the nine missing agas in the description, or whether perhaps
other officers of lesser positions were not mentioned.

56. On the muhtasib, see Pakalin, II:572; Cohen, Economic Life, 11–12.
The role of the muhtasib, shaykh al­suq, and sheikh al­tujjar is discussed
further in chapter 6.

57. Most of the quotations and examples from the sijill in this and in other
chapters attest to the considerable variety of issues in the shari'a court.

58. Here are just a few examples picked at random from one volume of the
sijill (vol. 146, 1650–1651): p. 265—a firman from Istanbul; p. 283—
notables are summoned; p. 321—issues concerning the governors funds; p.
335—the governor's letter of appointment; p. 359—an investigation team
dispatched to carry a survey of the water supply to the city; p. 365—a criminal
case; p. 385—debt payment; p. 392—a sales deed. It appears that the qadi's
authority, relative to that of the governor, was greater than in Aleppo a century
later. See Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of Modernity, 80.

59. These are some examples of records in the sijill referring to market
activities: JS, 107: no. 612—appointing the head of a guild; no. 145—trade
problems; 171:190—hoarding wheat to inflate prices; 171:421—a brawl in
the marketplace; p. 590—friction between villagers and townsmen;
171:661—demand to uphold the rights of a guild; 201:313—exploitation of
artisans; Nabulus Sijill (NS), 1:142—libel lawsuits between merchants. See
many other examples of activity in the market in chapter 6.

60. On the Khasikiyya waqf see S. H. Stephan, "An Endowment Deed of

Khasseki Sultan, Dated the 24th of May 1552," The Quarterly of the
Department of Antiquities in Palestine 10, (1944): 170–94; Oded Peri,
"The Waqf as an Instrument to Increase and Consolidate Political Power: The
case of Khasseki Sultan Waqf in Late Eighteenth Century Jerusalem," in G. R.
Warburg and G. Gilbar (eds.), Studies in Islamic Society: Contributions in
Memory of Gabriel Baer (Haifa, 1984) 47–62. For a discussion of the term
"Khasiki Sultan," see Pakalin, I:754. Marcus claims that in the eighteenth
century the Ottoman state had no notion of welfare, and the poor and needy in
Aleppo had to rely on the charity of private individuals. In this regard
Jerusalem presents a clear contrast: the main welfare establishment was
endowed and kept by the state, and the qadi, a representative of the state,
allocated rations in court. A similar situation existed in Nabulus, where the qadi
would order several charities to attend to the needs of the poor.

61. The word takiya describes both a Sufi prayer room or monastery, and a
welfare store.
 Page 203

62. Abd al­Ghani al­Nabulsi, Kitab al­Hadra al­Unsiyya fi 'l­Rihla al­

Qudsiyya, 1100h. (Bibliotheque Nationale, Mss. Arabes 5960), fol. 61a.

63. Bimaristan is a Persian word meaning hospital or mental institution.

64. The ghurosh referred to at this period (unless stated otherwise) is the
Dutch Reichstaler (sometimes called ghurosh asadi, referring to the imprint of
a lion on its face). See chapter 5.

65. JS, 125:77, no. 326 (6 Sha'ban 1045/ 15 January 1636).

66. Ibid. 107:145 (20 Shawwal 1032/ 17 August 1623); 107:155, no. 660
(Safar 1033/ December 1623); 107:337, no. 1468 (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/
January–February 1624); 146:392 (Rajab 1062/ June–July 1652); 201:356
(12 Rabi' al­Thani 1114/ 5 September 1702). Ralph Hattox, Coffee and
Coffee Houses: The Origins of a Social Beverage in the Medieval Near
East (Seattle and London, 1985), 92–98. See also 'Adil Manna'. "Mered
Naqib al ashraf Bi Yerushalayim, 1703–1705" (The Naqib al­ashraf Revolt in
Jerusalem, 1703–1705). Hebrew. Cathedra 53 (1989): 62–63; Muhammad
Adnan Bakhit, The Ottoman Province of Damascus in the 16th Century.
(Beirut, 1982), 156; Rozen, Horvot Yerushalayim, 111. On Drugs and their
use, see also d'Arvieux, 12–14.

67. Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism, 267–71.

68. The terms salamlik (selamlik) and haramlik (haremlik) were sometimes
used in this Turkish form, but in most cases only the private part of the house
was referred to as a separate sphere, called the harim.

69. Leslie P. Peirce, The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the
Ottoman Empire (New York, 1993), 7–12. On the evolution of the harem as
an abode of privacy in Western travel accounts, see Billie Melman. Women's
Orients: English Women and the Middle East, 1718–1918 (Ann Arbor,
1992).

70. See Roger, 300–301.

71. For cases of "accidents" involving the mysterious death of women, see JS,
183:227 (awasit Rajab 1091/ mid­August 1680); 191:67 (3 Jumada al­Akhira
1100/ 25 March 1689); p. 116 (10 Rajab 1100 30 April 1689); NS, 1:83,
no. 2 (2 Dhu al­Hijja 1066/ 21 September 1656).

72. Examples of inheritance: JS, 125:65, no. 256 (Rajab 1045/ December
1635 – January 1636); 125:121, no. 512 (9 Ramadan 1045/ 16 February
1636); 125:177, no. 767 (Shawwal 1045/ March–April 1636) 125:178, no.
768 (same date); 125:179, no. 770 (same date); 177:66 (14 Dhu al­Hijja
1085/11 March 1675); 183:200 (Jumada al­Akhira 1090/ July–August
1679). Other records may also indicate the contents of a house. See report of
a theft, 168:62 (27 Ramadan 1078/ 11 February 1668). On furniture in Jewish
houses, see Rozen, Haqehila Hayehudit, pages 249–50; Ya'ari, Masa'ot,
281. On contents and furniture in (mostly
 Page 204

upper­class Ottoman) harems, see also Billie Melman, Women's Orients,

150–53.

73. Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism, I:285–94.

74. See d'Arvieux, 18; Ya'ari, Masa'ot, 337.

75. In addition to the above­mentioned inheritance records, see Ya'ari,

Masa'ot, 33.

76. Books in inheritance records: JS, 125:177, no. 767 (Shawwal 1045/
March–April 1636); 183:4 (awasit Dhu al­Hijja 1090/ mid­January 1680).
See also: Ya'ari, Masa'ot, 354.

77. The Naqib al­Ashraf revolt will be discussed in the following chapters,
mainly in chapter 3. See also Manna', ''The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 54–56,
62–66.

2. Rise and Fall of Local Dynasties

1. I would like to thank Halil Inalcik for pointing out the importance of the
Celali revolts in this process.

2. On the devsirme system, see Stanford Shaw, History of the Ottoman

Empire and Modern Turkey (Cambridge, 1976), 112–15; On systems of
governor appointments, see Halil Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire: The
Classical Age, 104–18; Gibb and Bowen, I:137–54; Norman Itzkowitz, The
Ottoman Empire and Islamic Tradition (Chicago, 1980). On changes in the
system, see Inalcik, "Centralization and Decentralization," 27, 29–30.

3. Metin Kunt, The Sultan's Servants—The Transformation of Ottoman

Government, 1550–1650 (New York, 1983). The summary presented here
and in the following paragraphs is based on most of this book.

4. On the allocation of çiftliks, see ibid., 85–87

5. Ibid., 70–72.

6. Several detailed essays on the two families—Farrukh and Turabay—shed

some light on their origins and histories. 'Adel Manna', basing his research on
the Jerusalem sijill, describes the first two generations of the Farrukhs—
Farrukh himself, the founder of the small dynasty, and his son Muhammad,
both of whom held the position of governor in Jerusalem and Nabulus on
several occasions. He describes the contacts between the Farrukhs and the
Turabays, and an ambivalent relationship with the beduins in the region: 'Adel
Manna', Mishpahat Farrukh: shiltona u­fo 'ola (The House of Farrukh: Its
rule and Deeds) (M. A. Thesis, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1978).
A summary of this work is published as an article: "Moshley Yerushalayim mi­
beyt Farrukh (The Farrukh Governors of Jerusalem) in: Amnon Cohen
 Page 205

(ed.) Peraqim be­toldot Yerushalayim be­reshit hatequfa ha­'othmanit

(Chapters in the History of Jerusalem at the beginning of the
Ottoman Period) (Jerusalem, 1979) pp. 196–232. See also: Minna
Rozen, Horvot Yerushalayim (The Ruins of Jerusalem) (Tel­Aviv,
1981).

Moshe Sharon, Adrian Bakhit and Abd al­Rahim abu Husayn wrote on
the Turabays, who ruled the district of Lajjun for several generations. Their
work is based mainly on Ottoman sources and on the accounts of the
French aristocrat d'Arvieux, who was in the Turabay's employ for several
years: Adnan Bakhit, "al­Usra al­Harithiyya fi Marj bani 'Amr (The
Harithite family in Marj Bani 'Amr)" Al­Abhath, vol. 27 (1980), 55–78;
idem, The Ottoman Province of Damascus in the Sixteenth Century
(Beirut, 1982), 208–216; Moshe Sharon, "The Political Role of the
Beduins in Palestine in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries" in M.
Maoz (ed.) Studies on Palestine During the Ottoman Period
(Jerusalem, 1975). The Turabays are also discussed by Abd al­Rahim
Abu Husayn, Provincial Leadership in Syria, 1575–1650 (Beirut,
1985), 183–198. These works stress the family's bedouin origin, its special
relationship with the Ottomans from the beginning of the sixteenth century,
and its prolonged war against Fakhr al­Din II. The Ridwan family is often
mentioned by Uriel Heyd in his book Ottoman Documents on Palestine.

7. Mehmed Süreyya, Sicill­i Osmani (Istanbul, 1308–11), IV:374–75; Heyd,

Ottoman Documents, 41–42. Heyd points out that the governor of Gaza was
the only governor in Palestine whose salary exceeded half a million akçe a
year, and was therefore the only one among them eligible for the post of
beylerbey (province governor). This may explain why Kara Mustafa received
the governorship of Gaza after a tour of duty as province governor.

8. Süreyya, Sicill­i Osmani, II:401–2; Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 50, 186,

105–6, 137; Manna', "Moshley Yerushalayim Mi­Beyt Farrukh," 197; Rafeq,
The Province of Damascus, 56. Ihsan al­Nimr, Tarikh Jabal Nabulus, I:79.

9. Muhibbi, I:187; II:134–36.

10. Süreyya, Sicill­i Osmani, II:133–134; Muhibbi, II:16. See also Heyd,
Ottoman Documents, 186. Heyd suggests that Hasan was called "Arap"
because of his dark skin color.

11. Muhibbi, II:88–89; Abd al­Karim Rafeq, Bilad al­sham wa­Misr min al­
fath al­'uthmani (Damascus, 1968), 225.

12. JS, 171:659 (Sha'ban 1081/ December 1670 – January 1671)

13. The title amir al­darbayn refers to the Turabays' task of guarding the
coastal road (via Maris) and the stretch of road from Damascus to Jerusalem
that passes through the Jordan valley and Jenin. On doubts concerning their
origins, see Abu Husayn, Provincial Leadership, 184–85.
 Page 206

14. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 45–46, 50–52, 56–57, 94–95; Sharon,

"The Political Role of the Beduins," 26–30; Abu Husayn, Provincial
Leadership in Syria, 187, 191; Bakhit, The Ottoman Province of
Damascus, pp. 208–12; D'Arvieux, 74–78. On the Turabays' bedouin
connections and requests for camels by the Ottoman authorities, see also
d'Arvieux, 20, 106–7; Basbakanlik Arsivi (BBA), Mühimme Defteri (MD),
69:183, no. 368 (20 Rabi' al­Awwal 1000/ 6 January 1592); 69:34, no. 40
(29 Jumada al­Ula 1000/ 14 March 1592); Abu Husayn, 191.

15. Abu Husayn, 187–88; Bakhit, The Ottoman Province of Damascus,

56–66.

16. Abu Husayn, 189–90; Bakhit, "The Harithite Family," 68–69; Heyd, 45,
52–53, 109–10.

17. Muhibbi, I:221; Sharon, "The Political Role of the Bedouins," 28–29;
Bakhit, "The Harithite Family,", 70–77; Abu Husayn, 192–97.

18. Halil Inalcik, Fariba Zarinebaf and Karen Barkey, BBA Provincial
Appointment Registers (to be published): "Liva­i mezburda mutasarrif olan
Turabay oglu Ahmedin sekaveti zuhur edüp"; see also Muhibbi.

19. Sharon, "The Political Role of the Bedouins," 29; Muhibbi; Bakhit, "The
Harithite Family," 77–78.

20. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem"; Rozen, The Ruins of Jerusalem,

23–49; idem, Ha­qehila Ha­Yehudit Be­Yerushalayim (The Jewish
Community in Jerusalem in the Seventeenth Century) (Tel­Aviv, 1985), 30–
57.

21. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem," 203–7; Rozen, The Ruins of

Jerusalem, 23–26.

22. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem," 209–15; Rozen, The Ruins of

Jerusalem, 26–49.

23. Muhibbi, IV:108–10; Ihsan al­Nimr, Tarikh Jabal Nabulus wa­l­

Balqa' (History of Jabal Nabulus and the Balqa'), I.

24. NS, 1:40, 43, 67, 101, 158, 163. Many other records and firmans that do
not deal directly with issues of government refer to 'Assaf as governor.

25. JS, 168:16 (25 Rajab 1078/ 10 January 1668); 168:42 (26 Rajab 1078/
11 January 1668); 171:185 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1080/ end of
November 1669); 171:639 (6 Sha'ban 1081/ 19 December 1670); 171:659
(Sha'ban 1081/ December 1670), etc. At the beginning of the seventeen
nineties another governor named 'Assaf was sanjaq bey of Jerusalem and
'Ajlun, and amir al­hajj. See Karl Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus,
1708–1758 (Princeton, 1980), 46–47. And also: BBA, MD, 98:79, no. 242
(awasit Rabi' al­Awwal 1100/ mid­January 1689); 99:162, no. 522 (awakhir
Rabi' al­Thani 1101/ February 1680); 102:125, no. 521 (Awa'il Jumada al­
Ula 1103/ January 1692); 104:178 (awa'il Rabi' al­Thani 1104/ mid­
December 1692); 104:214 (awasit Sha'ban 1104/ April 1693). If
 'Ajlun, and amir al­hajj. See Karl Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 
1708–1758 (Princeton, 1980), 46–47. And also: BBA, MD, 98:79, no. 242 
(awasit Rabi' al­Awwal 1100/ mid­January 1689); 99:162, no. 522 (awakhir 
Rabi' al­Thani 1101/ February 1680); 102:125, no. 521 (Awa'il Jumada al­
Ula 1103/ January 1692); 104:178 (awa'il Rabi' al­Thani 1104/ mid­
December 1692); 104:214 (awasit Sha'ban 1104/ April 1693). If

  
 Page 207

Muhibbi's account of 'Assaf's death, corroborated by the sijill, is to be

believed, then this could not be the same person. There is a slim chance,
though, that news of 'Assaf's death was false and that he later reappeared.
If this is true, it may provide another explanation for the pen strokes on
documents pertaining to 'Assaf's death and to his inheritance.

26. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem," 202–4.

27. Ibid, 207, 211.

28. Ibid.

29. NS, vol. 1, p. 40 (10 Rajab 1066/ 4 May 1656).

30. JS, 171:639 (6 Sha'ban 1081/ 19 December 1670).

31. Ibid., p. 659 (Sha'ban 1081/ January 1671).

32. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 50–52.

33. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem," 211–15; idem, "The Farrukh

Family," 44; Ahmad al­Khalidi, Lubnan fi 'ahd al­amir Fakhr al­Din al­
Ma'ni al­thani (Lebanon in the Reign of Fakhr al­Din II) (Beirut, 1636),
106, 111–12, 124–25; Bulus Qar'ali, Fakhr al­Din al­Ma'ni al­thani hakim
Lubnan wa­dawlat Tuskana 1605–1635 (Fakhr al­Din and the State of
Tuscany) (Rome, 1938) II:126–28; Abu Husayn, Provincial Leadership,
87–110; P. M. Holt, Egypt and the Fertile Crescent, 1516–1922 (Ithaca
and London, 1966), 115–19.

34. N. J. Coulson, Succession in the Muslim Family (Cambridge, 1971),

40–47. According to the shari'a most of the inheritance is fixed and cannot be
altered by a will. Each of the deceased's relatives—children, parents, brothers,
sisters, and other kin—is entitled to a share of the inheritance, in accordance
with the number of heirs, their relation or proximity to the deceased, and their
sex. As a rule a male receives twice the amount given to a female in the same
proximity to the deceased.

35. NS, 1:43, no. 3 (15 Rajab 1066/ 9 May 1656).

36. JS, 171:659 (Sha'ban 1081/ December 1670 – January 1671).

37. Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem," 208, 211; Rozen, The Ruins of
Jerusalem, 23; Inalcik, Zarinebaf and Barkey, "Liwa Lajjun."

38. On the Turabay's Bedouin heritage, see: d'Arvieux, 106–7.

39. Dror Zeevi, Slavery in the Ottoman Empire in the 19th Century—
Social and Judicial Aspects (Hebrew), unpublished M.A. thesis, Tel Aviv
University, 1985, 104–8; Metin Kunt, "Kullarin Kullari," Bogaziçi
Üniversitesi—Hümaniter Bilimler 3 (1975): 27–42; Süreyya, Sicill­i
Osmani, 374–75.

40. Kunt; Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem". Another of Ridwan's

mamloks, Kiwan Bey, was sent to Damascus, where he (and later his son)
became amir al­hajj several decades later.
 University, 1985, 104–8; Metin Kunt, "Kullarin Kullari," Bogaziçi 
Üniversitesi—Hümaniter Bilimler 3 (1975): 27–42; Süreyya, Sicill­i 
Osmani, 374–75.

40. Kunt; Manna', "The Governors of Jerusalem". Another of Ridwan's 
mamloks, Kiwan Bey, was sent to Damascus, where he (and later his son) 
became amir al­hajj several decades later.

  
 Page 208

41. On the system of education in the sultan's palace, see Norman Itzkowitz,
Ottoman Empire and Islamic Tradition (Chicago and London, 1972), 59–
60; Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire, 78–79.

42. Muhibbi, I:187–88.

43. Muhibbi, II:16, 88; 'Arif al­'Arif, Tarikh Ghazza (History of Gaza)
(Jerusalem, 1943), 178. Travelers from the West who visited Gaza during
Husayn Pasha's reign confirm this description of a remarkably generous and
noble person. See Martin M. Meyer, History of the City of Gaza (New
York, 1907), 97–98.

44. Muhibbi, III:271; IV:108.

45. Carter Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire

(Princeton, 1980), 31–40.

46. Farrukh himself, of course, began as a mamlok in the service of Bahram

Pasha. Other mentions of mamloks see Ovadia Salameh, "Slavery and Waqf
in Jerusalem, in the Early Ottoman Period" (Hebrew), unpublished seminar
paper presented to the Hebrew University, 1989, 9–10, 13; JS, 107:351. no.
1504 (18 Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ 13 October 1623); Rozen, The Ruins of
Jerusalem, 93; BBA, MD, 96:125, no. 627 (Awa'il Sha'ban 1089/ September
1678).

47. On other sets of political marriage in these local dynasties, see Muhibbi,
I:189; al­Khalidi, 129; On marriage in and outside the social class, see
Findley, Bureaucratic Reform, 32–33.

48. This can be perceived in many sijill records in Jerusalem and Nabulus.
Some are quoted in this chapter.

49. On military bands and battle standards, see al­Khalidi, 9. As for sports
and hunting, Muhibbi, I:187, recounts that the forefather of the Ridwan family,
Kara Shahin Mustafa Pasha, received his nickname Shahin (falcon) or Abu
Shahin, because, being very fond of this hunting method, he was frequently
seen with a falcon on his wrist.

50. d'Arvieux, 54.

51. On the transfer of 'imarat al­hajj to Damascus, see Rafeq, The Province
of Damascus, 53–58. Rafeq notes the attempt to remove command of the
hajj caravan from the Palestinian districts to the Damascene center, but does
not mention the subsequent failure of this attempt, and the success of the
southwestern sanjaqbeys in regaining control of this lucrative task.

52. In this contextfaqih probably means a reciter of the Koran.

53. NS, 1:38, no. 2 (8 Rajab 1066/ 2 May 1656). On the ulak rapid
messenger service, see Midhat Sertoglu, Osmanli Tarih Lugati (Istanbul,
1986), 348.

54. Muhibbi, II:89: "lam yajni dhanban ghayr anna zamanahu * qad fuwwida
al­ahkam li'l­hussad * Habuhu wa­huwa muqayyad fi sijnihi * wa­kadha al­
suyuf tuhabu fi al­aghmad."
 53. NS, 1:38, no. 2 (8 Rajab 1066/ 2 May 1656). On the ulak rapid 
messenger service, see Midhat Sertoglu, Osmanli Tarih Lugati (Istanbul, 
1986), 348.

54. Muhibbi, II:89: "lam yajni dhanban ghayr anna zamanahu * qad fuwwida 
al­ahkam li'l­hussad * Habuhu wa­huwa muqayyad fi sijnihi * wa­kadha al­
suyuf tuhabu fi al­aghmad."

  
 Page 209

55. BBA, MD, 102:202 (awakhir Rabi' al­Thani 1103/ mid­January 1692);
104:103, (awa'il Rabi' al­Awwal 1104/ mid­November 1692); 106:120, no.
417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/ May–June 1695); 111:508, no. 1761–62 (awasit
Rabi' al­Thani 1112/ September–October 1700); 111:574, no. 2022 (awa'il
Muharram 1113/ March 1702); 110:154, no. 544 (awa'il Shawwal 1113/
March 1702); JS, 201:1 (awasit Dhu al­Hijja 1112/ October 1698). On the
abandonment of villages, see 'Adel Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 53.

56. Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 55–62.

57. Ibid., 63–68.

58. Rifaat Abou el­Haj, The 1703 Revolt and the Structure of Ottoman
Politics (Istanbul, 1984), 88–93.

59. On the transfer of imarat al­hajj to Damascus, see Rafeq, Bilad al­
Sham, 225.

3. The Sufi Connection

1. Shaw, The Ottoman Empire, 225–29; Abou el­Haj, The 1703 Revolt; P.
M. Holt, Egypt and the Fertile Crescent, 88–90; Rafeq, The Province of
Damascus, 81–85. On the Naqib al­Ashraf revolt of 1703 in Jerusalem, see
above, pp. 60–61.

2. Abou El­Haj, The 1703 Revolt, 13–14, 88–93. See also Holt; Manna',
"The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 54–56.

3. Gibb and Bowen, I:198–99, 256–57

4. Albert Hourani, "Ottoman Reform and the Politics of Notables" in idem,

The Emergence of the Modern Middle East (London, 1981), 40–41.

5. Ibid., 42.

6. Ibid., 44.

7. Ibid., 44–45.

8. Ibid., 45–51

9. Ibid., 66.

10. Inalcik, "Centralization and Decentralization," 37–39.

11. Ibid., 37–38.

12. Ibid., 44–45.

13. Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 68–73.

14. For examples of the use of the term ayan and its definitions, see Gibb and
Bowen, I:198–99; Inalcik, "Centralization and Decentralization," 30–38; idem,
"Military and Fiscal Transformation," 327–29; McGowan, "Research of Land
and Agriculture," 60; Hourani, "Politics of Notables," 44–45.

15. JS, 146:285 (19 Jumada al­Ula 1062/28 April 1652). Another example
 13. Barbir, Ottoman Rule in Damascus, 68–73.

14. For examples of the use of the term ayan and its definitions, see Gibb and 
Bowen, I:198–99; Inalcik, "Centralization and Decentralization," 30–38; idem,
"Military and Fiscal Transformation," 327–29; McGowan, "Research of Land 
and Agriculture," 60; Hourani, "Politics of Notables," 44–45.

15. JS, 146:285 (19 Jumada al­Ula 1062/28 April 1652). Another example 
will be discussed at length later in the chapter NS, 1:169, no. 1 (awa'il

  
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Sha'ban 1067/15 May 1657). On honorific titles in the sijill of Aleppo,

see Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of Modernity, 57.

16. Use of the terminology suggested by Lybyer does not mean acceptance of
his division into "ruling" and "military" institutions based on ethnic and religious
lines. The two elites were far more complex in their constitution, as well as in
their self­image, than ethnic and religious divisions suggest.

17. See Hourani, "Politics of Notables," 45–49.

18. Abd al­Ghani al­Nabulsi, Rihlati ila al­quds (al­hadra al­unsiyya fi al­
rihla al­qudsiyya (al­Qahira, Maktabat a]­qahira bi­al­sanadiqiyya, n.d.), 13,
15, 19, 40, 52, 73. See also the manuscript: kitab al­hadra al­unsiyya fi al­
rihla al­qudsiyya (Mss. Arabes no. 5960, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris),
fols. 52b, 62.

19. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, IX:488.

20. Muhibbi, Ulema who studied in Cairo: I:87, 297, 489, 500; II:134–6,
172, 238, 437; III:110, 266, 340, 356, 411, 412, 413, 475, 482; IV:315.

21. Ibid.

22. Ibid., II:433; III:340. On connections between ashraf and Sufi orders see
JS, 98:93, no. 525 (17 Shawwal 1024/9 November 1615).

23. Muhibbi: Muhammad al­Dajjani, III:356 'Abd al­Qadir al­Ghazzi, II:437;

the 'Alamis, II:219, IV:78. Other Sufi ulema: Hafiz al­Din b. Muhammad al­
Sururi, I:500; Darwish ibn Sulayman al­Dajjani, II:156; Salih ibn 'Ali al­Safadi,
II:238; Muhammad b. Salih al­Dajjani, III:475; Muhammad b. abi al­Lutf,
III:482; Muhammad al­Dayri al­Qudsi, IV:313. See also Muhammad Khalil
al­Muradi, Silk al­durar fi a'yan al ­qarn al­hadi 'ashar (Baghdad, Maktabat
al­muthanna, n.d.): Abu al­wafa al­'Alami, I:71; Ahmad b. Salih al­'Alami,
I:117.

24. Roger, 284–92.

25. Ibid., 288: "Les seigneurs, Bachas et Sanjacqs ont d'ordinaire un de ces
derviches avec eux, et lors qu'ils vont en campagne ils les logent dans leurs
tents et pavillions."

26. For the status of tariqas in Damascus, see Bakhit, The Ottoman
Province of Damascus, 214.

27. JS, 107:284, no. 1225 (5 Rabi' al­Thani 1033/28 December 1623).

28. Ibid., 107:302, no. 1304 (6 Rabi' al­Thani 1033/28 December 1623). For
other cases of waqfs dedicated by governors and ulema to the Sufis, see ibid,
85, no. 1549 (18 Rabi' al­Thani 1014/2 September 1605); 107, no. 550
(Safar 1033/November–December 1623); 107:571 (same date). In addition
to their income from waqfs, Sufis were also helped by their benefactors to
receive allowances for performing ritual and traditional prayer tasks: see ibid,
107:247, no. 1092 (10 Muharram 1033/November 4, 1623).
 85, no. 1549 (18 Rabi' al­Thani 1014/2 September 1605); 107, no. 550 
(Safar 1033/November–December 1623); 107:571 (same date). In addition 
to their income from waqfs, Sufis were also helped by their benefactors to 
receive allowances for performing ritual and traditional prayer tasks: see ibid, 
107:247, no. 1092 (10 Muharram 1033/November 4, 1623).

  
 Page 211

29. Ibid., 107:161, no. 671; 191:107 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1100/April
1689). See also 107:175, no. 720 (19 Safar 1033/21 December 1623).

30. Muhibbi, II:88 (Husayn Pasha b. Ridwan); 134–136 (Khayr al­Din al­
Ramli); IV:212 ('Umar b. 'Abd al­Qadir al­Ghazzi).

31. W. A. S. Khalidi, "al­'Alami", Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd edition, I:352.

32. Ibid. Building a mosque on the site of the Ascension provoked protests
from Christians residing in Jerusalem, who considered this part of their own
heritage.

33. JS, 107. no. 571 (Safar 1033/November–December 1623). Sheikh As'ad
is referred to as "al­mufti al­a'zam bi­dar al­saltana al­saniyya."

34. JS, 107. no. 688 (1033/1623); 107:301, no. 1302 (10 Rabi' al­Thani
1033/10 January 1624); 107:312, no. 1376, (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/January
1624); 107:404, no. 1750 (Jumada al­Ula 1033/February–March 1624);
107:405, no. 1754 (same date); 125:40, no. 177 (13 Rajab 1045/22
December 1635); 125:52, no. 213 (12 Rajab 1045/22 December 1635).

35. On 'Alamis receiving surra payments, see JS, 98:76, no. 437 (12
Shawwal 1024/4 November 1615); 125:80, no. 336 (Sha'ban 1045/
January–February 1636); Ihsan al­Nimr, Tarikh jabal Nabulus wa­al­
Balqa', I:88.

36. JS, 107: no. 974 (Rabi' Awwal 1033/December 1623 – January 1624);
125:80, no. 336 (Sha'ban 1045/January–February 1636); 201: no. 423 (19
Shawwal 1114/8 March 1703).

37. JS, 177:145 (22 Rabi' Awwal 1086/16 July 1675).

38. JS, 98:108, no. 264 (29 Shawwal 1024/11 November 1615). It should
be mentioned, though, that in another record of the same year another sayyid,
Zakariyya, is mentioned as naqib al ashraf: ibid., 98:46, no. 437 (12
Shawwal 1024/5 November 1615). Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt,"
56.

39. JS, 107: no. 446 (Muharram 1033/November 1623).

40. Ibid, no. 1091 (18 Rabi' Awwal 1033/9 January 1624).

41. Ibid, 125:67, no. 265 (Rajab 1045/December 1635 – January 1636);
125:80, no. 336–337 (Sha'ban 1045/January–February 1636); 146:285 (19
Jumada al­Uula 1062/April–May 1652) Compare with the status of naqib al
ashraf in Damascus: Bakhit, Damascus in the 16th Century, 215. Bakhit
claims that the naqib in Damascus had no special status throughout the 17th
century.

42. Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 72–73.

43. JS, 85:55, no. 244 (8 Shawwal 1013/27 February 1605); 85:309, no.
1368 (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/January 1624); 85: no. 439 (Muharram
1033/October–November 1223). On the position of ra'is al­tujjar (bazar
basi) in sixteenth­century Jerusalem, see Amnon Cohen, Economic Life in
Ottoman Jerusalem, 77, 85, 104, 109.
 42. Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 72–73.

43. JS, 85:55, no. 244 (8 Shawwal 1013/27 February 1605); 85:309, no. 
1368 (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/January 1624); 85: no. 439 (Muharram 
1033/October–November 1223). On the position of ra'is al­tujjar (bazar 
basi) in sixteenth­century Jerusalem, see Amnon Cohen, Economic Life in 
Ottoman Jerusalem, 77, 85, 104, 109.

  
 Page 212

44. JS, 125:201, no. 865 (29 Shawwal 1045/6 April 1636); 146:285 (19
Jumada al­Ula 1062/28 April 1668).

45. JS, 168:56 (Ramadan 1078/ February–March 1668); 168:57, (20

Ramadan 1078/ 5 March 1668); 168:273 (ghurrat Muharram 1079/ 11 June
1668); 168:401 (Jumada al­Thaniya 1079/November 1668); 191:64 (Jumada
al­Ula 1100/February–March 1689).

46. 'Abd al­Ghani Al­Nabulsi, Rihlati ila al­Quds (Al­Hadra al­unsiyya fi

al­rihla al Qudsiyya) (Cairo, n.d.), 21; JS, 183:156 (10 Jumada al­Ula
1091/8 June 1680).

47. Sekban were military units recruited ad hoc, mainly from among the
peasants, and sometimes discharged when the war was over. Many
unemployed sekban units rebelled against the central government and ravaged
the Anatolian countryside.

48. Karl Barbir, "From Pasha to Effendi: The Assimilation of Ottomans into
Damascene Society, 1516–1783," International Journal of Turkish Studies
1. 1 (Winter 1979–80): 69–71.

49. JS, 191:177 (8 Ramadan 1100/26 June 1689). For another dimension of
this issue, local groups integrated into the military elite, see ibid., 168:354, (5
Jumada al­Akhira 1079/10 November 1668) and subsequent records.

50. Bashsha (beççe) is a title for a junior officer in the sultan's inner service.
The title, literally meaning "swallow chick," was given to particularly swift and
agile youths. See Pakalin, I:184.

51. Müteferrika—member of a special corps of the sultan's external service,

staffed by slaves as well as sons of ümera.

52. NS, 1: 169, no. 1 (awa'il Sha'ban 1067/May 1657). Other documents
presenting a similar pecking order: JS, 146:285 (19 Jumada al­Ula 1062/28
April 1652); 183:158 (7 Jumada al­Ula 1091/5 June 1680).

53. Robert Darnton, "A Bourgeois Puts His World in Order: The City as a
Text" in The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural
History (New York, 1984), 107–40.

54. Ibid., 120.

55. Marshal S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam (Chicago, 1974), I:105–11.

56. The surra (sürre) was an annual gift of money sent from Istanbul to
various places in the empire, including Jerusalem. Those entitled to receive it
were certain high­ranking ulema, members of established families, etc. Surra
grants were relatively small.

57. Doubdan, 327–335.

58. Ibid.

59. JS, 146:283 (19 Jumada al­Ula 1062/ 28 April 1652).

60. Ibid., 285 (same date).

 57. Doubdan, 327–335.

58. Ibid.

59. JS, 146:283 (19 Jumada al­Ula 1062/ 28 April 1652).

60. Ibid., 285 (same date).

  
 Page 213

61. For an interesting discussion of salaries and grants of money as status

symbols, see Darnton, "A Bourgeois Puts His World in Order," 120–22.

62. JS, 183:117 (Safar 1091/ March 1680); NS, 1:243, no. 1 (27 Jumada al­
Ula 1066/ 24 March 1656).

63. Inalcik, "Fiscal and Military Transformation," 331–33; idem,

"Centralization and Decentralization," 41. This description obviously applies to
eighteenth­century notables. See Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of
Modernity, 57–58.

64. On local leasing of timar and waqf, see chapter 5.

65. See Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt" 68–74.

66. BBA, MD, 104:103 (awa'il Rabi' al­Awwal 1104/ mid­September 1692);
106:120, no. 417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/ end of May 1695); JS, 201:299
(22 Muharram 1115/ 7 June 1703); ibid., p. 311 (awasit Rajab 1110/mid­
January 1699), and many others. See also chapter 2.

67. 'Adel Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt" 56–57; Silahdar Findiklili
Mehmed aga, Silahdar Tarihi (Istanbul, 1928) 242; Rozen, "Mered naqib al­
ashraf" (The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt) 77–78.

68. Manna', "The Naqib al­Ashraf Revolt," 68–74.

69. Rafeq, Bilad al­Sham wa­Misr, 221; Holt, Egypt and the Fertile
Crescent, 88–90; Abou al­Haj, The 1703 Revolt, 88–93.

4. Desert, Village and Town

1. See Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 63–78. Heyd suggests that the decline of
janissaries and sipahis can be traced back to the mid­sixteenth century (p.
63). This state of affairs stems, according to Heyd, from the weakness of
several sultans and from the demise of the devsirme system as a result of
pressures from without. On the reasons for the disappearance of the
devsirme, see above, pp. 36–39.

2. On janissaries in commerce and daily life, see JS, 98:94, no. 531 (23
Shawwal 1024/15 November 1615); 107, no. 696 (17 Safar 1033/ 2 August
1623); 107, no. 974 (Rabi' Awwal 1033/ December 1623 – January 1624);
107:264 (27 Rabi' Awwal 1033/ 18 January 1624); 107:300, no. 1351 (2
Rabi' al­Thani 1033/ 23 January 1623); no. 380 (awasit Muharram
1033/November 1623); 125, no. 453 (6 Sha'ban 1045/15 January 1636).
NS, 1:36 (5 Rajab 1066/ 29 April 1656); p. 56 (22 Sha'ban 1066/ 15 June
1656); 1:135 (awakhir Rajab 1067/ Beginning of May 1657); 1:138 (16
Shawwal 1067/ 28 July 1657).

3. In most cases this term (al­takalif al­'urfiyya) refers to taxes and

impositions by local governors or by the central government, in addition to the
regular taxes mentioned in the kanun names and in tapu­tahrir registers. On
taxation, see chapter 6, pp. 145–154.
 3. In most cases this term (al­takalif al­'urfiyya) refers to taxes and 
impositions by local governors or by the central government, in addition to the 
regular taxes mentioned in the kanun names and in tapu­tahrir registers. On 
taxation, see chapter 6, pp. 145–154.

  
 Page 214

4. For janissary inheritance lists, see JS, 107:264, 284, 300, 318; NS, 1:53,
66. For a janissary as translator (turjuman), see JS, 171:188 (28 Jumada al­
Akhira 1080/ 23 November 1669).

5. See Kunt, The Sultan's Servants, 79.

6. BBA, MD, 73:475, no. 1048 (17 Ramadan 1003/ 26 May 1595); 92:13,
no. 57 (awa'il Ramdan 1067/ mid­June 1657).

7. Farrukh Bey and Kiwan Bey, both mamloks of the Riwdan family, were
given timars and ranks, on their way to becoming district governors. See
chapter 2, p. 40.

8. This case is contained in a series of records: JS, 168:354 (5 Jumada al­

Akhira 1079/ 10 November 1668); 356 (10 Jumada al­Akhira 1079/ 15
November 1068); 171:396 (12 Muharram 1081/ 1 June 1670). See also
201:380 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1114/ mid­November 1702).

9. In yet another parallel dispute, the relatives reached a compromise with the
families of the executed assassins. Both sides agreed to waive demands for
compensation and resume their lives, but this intriguing affair is beyond the
scope of this chapter.

10. JS, 183:239 (awakhir Rajab 1091/ end of July 1680). On attempts to turn
timars into private property and bequeath them to sons, see chapter 5, pp.
128–129.

11. JS, 183:183 (Jumada al­Ula 1091/ June 1680)/ 183:218 (8 Rajab 1091/
4 August 1680); 183:227 (awasit Rajab 1091/mid­August 1680). See also
Gerber, The Social Origins, 20.

12. See Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 63, 67–68, 70–72, 76. NS, 1:31, no. 2
(Jumada al­Ula 1066/ February–March 1656); 1:337, no. 1 (awakhir Jumada
al­Ula 1068/ March 1658). BBA, MD, 98:80, no. 243 (awasit Rajab 1100/
May 1689); 106:120, no. 417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/ May–June 1695).
Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, IX:462.

13. The declining status of this once feared institution was reflected in the
attitude of people in the city towards them. In one case a sipahi filed a
complaint against a Christian residing in the city for allegedly calling him ''a
leech and a bugger" (ya 'alaq, ya manyuk ).

14. Halil Inalcik, "Military and Fiscal Transformation in the Ottoman Empire,
1600–1700," Archivum Ottomanicum 4 (1980): 299–300; Ihsan al­Nimr,
Tarikh Jabal Nabulus, I:85; Al­Khalidi, Lubnan fi 'ahd al­Amir Fakhr al­
Din, 186–192.

15. Ibn Khaldun, The Muqaddimah: An Introduction to History, (Trans.

Franz Rosenthal (New York, 1958), 247–287.

16. Uriel Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine (Oxford, 1960).

17. Ibid., 91–92.

18. Ibid., 94–96.

 Franz Rosenthal (New York, 1958), 247–287.

16. Uriel Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine (Oxford, 1960).

17. Ibid., 91–92.

18. Ibid., 94–96.

19. Ibid., 96–98.

  
 Page 215

20. Ibid., 90–91.

21. Moshe Sharon, "The Political Role of the Bedouins in Palestine in the
Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries;" in M. Ma'oz (ed.) Studies on Palestine
during the Ottoman Period (Jerusalem, 1975), 17–19.

22. Ibid., 26–30. Turabay is a Mamluk name and Sharon wonders about its
origin, but the clan itself, and its bedouin background are well known. See also
'Adnan Bakhit, 'Al­Usra al­Harithiyya fi Marj bani 'Amr" (The Harithite family
in Maij Bani 'Amr), Al­Abhath 18 (1980): 55–78.

23. Ibid.

24. 'Adil Manna', "Moshley Yerushalayim mi­beyt Farrukh' (The Farrukh

Governors of Jerusalem), in Amnon Cohen (ed.), Prakim be­toldot
Yerushalayim be­reshit hatkufa ha­Othmanit (Chapters in the History of
Jerusalem at the Beginning of the Ottoman Period) (Jerusalem, 1979), 202.

25. Ibid., 209–215.

26. Ibid. and records on pp. 217–224.

27. Haim Gerber, The Social Origins of the Modern Middle East (Boulder,
Colorado, 1987), 60. This is by no means the only example. See also Ihsan
'Abbas, "Hair Ad­Din Ar­Ramli's Fatawa: A New Light on Life in Palestine in
the Eleventh/Seventeenth Century" in Ulrich Haarman and Peter Bachman
(eds.) Die Islamische Welt Zwischen Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Beirut, 1979)
pp. 10–11 ­ 'Abbas conforms to the general view on bedouin. Some tribes
obeyed Khayr al­Dinsfatawa , other tribes frequently cooperate with villagers.
Women who quarrelled with their husbands sometimes find shelter with them.
Yet in the end they are described as the disruptive element par exellence in
the region.

28. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 93–94.

29. Ibid., 98–99.

30. Sharon, "The Political Role of the Bedouins," 20n.50, 23n.70.

31. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 98–99, and n. 10.

32. BBA, MD, 104, no. 162 (awasit Jumada al­Akhira 1104/ end of February
1693). On a similar function of the amir al­'Arab at the beginning of the
century, see Bakhit, The Ottoman Province of Damascus, 202–4.

33. Manna', "The Farrukh Governors of Jerusalem," 200–201; BBA, MD,

98:172, no. 579 (awasit Jumada al­Ula 1100/ beginning of March 1689);
114:1, no. 1 (beginning of Rabi' al­Thani 1114/ end of July 1702); JS, 153:1
(6 Dhu al­Hijja 1067/ 15 September 1657).

34. JS, 98:108, no. 624 (29 Shawwal 1024/ 21 November 1615). On the
notables mentioned in this record, see chapter 3.

35. Ahmad ibn Muhammad al­Khalidi, Lubnan fi 'ahd al­amir Fakhr al­Din
al­Ma'ni al­thani (Beirut, 1936), 189–93. Al­Khalidi mentions that
 34. JS, 98:108, no. 624 (29 Shawwal 1024/ 21 November 1615). On the 
notables mentioned in this record, see chapter 3.

35. Ahmad ibn Muhammad al­Khalidi, Lubnan fi 'ahd al­amir Fakhr al­Din 
al­Ma'ni al­thani (Beirut, 1936), 189–93. Al­Khalidi mentions that

  
 Page 216

Ibn Farrukh also had with him a force of sakmaniyya (an Arabic version
of the Turkish word sekban, local forces). These are not mentioned in
other sources at this stage, although in the late seventeenth century they
frequently appear in sijill records. There is no way of knowing who these
sakmaniyya were. They may have been forces from Anatolia, but they
could also be bedouin recruited as a special force. On Fakhr al­Din II and
his exploits, see also chapter 2, p. 49.

36. Archives Nationales, Affaires Etrangères, serie bIII, 34:308. At the end
of the letter the trader informs the minister that the pirates were later found out
to be French—Captains Dedon and Daleste.

37. See Daniel Panzac, "International and DOmestic Maritime Trade in the
Ottoman Empire during the 18th Century" International Journal of Middle
East Studies 24 (1992) pp. 189–206.

38. See a detailed description of the economy in chapter 6. See also: Histoire
du Commerce de Marseille (Paris, 1954), IV:92–94; V:395; François
Charles­Roux, Les Echelles de Syrie et de Palestine (Paris, 1928), 9.

39. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 95–96. See also ibid., 81. Amnon Cohen,
Yehudim Be­Shilton Ha­Islam, 208–9.

40. BBA, MD, 102:212, no. 817 (awa'il Shawwal 1103/ mid­June 1692);
115:137, no. 563 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1118/ beginning of October
1706).

41. JS, 107:102 (11 Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ 6 October 1623); Cohen, Economic
Life in Jerusalem, pp. 37, 55. According to Cohen, the meat supplied by
bedouin was considered of a better quality than that supplied by villagers.

42. JS, 98:94, no. 531 (23 Shawwal 1024/ 15 November 1615). See also JS,
107, no. 1066 (Rabi' Awwal 1033/ December 1623 – January 1624); NS,
1:45, no. 2 (16 Rajab 1066/ 10 May 1656). For supplies of horses and
camels by the Turabays, see d'Arvieux, 106–7.

43. BBA, MD, 88:61 no. 155 (11 Rajab 1047/ 29 November 1637. See also
69:22, no. 40 (29 Jumada al­Ula 1000/ 14 March 1592); 69:30, no. 57 (4
Jumada al­Akhira 1000/ 18 March 1592); 69:98 no. 201 (21 Jumada al­
Akhira 1000/ 17 April 1592)/ 78:82, no. 215 (13 Sha'ban 1018/ 11
November 1609); 89:41, no. 108 (17 Rajab 1052/ 11 October 1642). On
the terms cebeci, arabaci, cebehane, mukabeleci, bas çavus and serdar,
see Sertoglu, 16–17, 35–36, 61, 62, 229, 312.

44. JS, 125:164, no. 729 (Shawwal 1045/ March–April 1635); 125:170, no.
746 (Shawwal 1045/ March–April 1635).

45. BBA, MD, 101:73, no. 227 (awa'il Rajab 1102/ beginning of April 1691).
The decree instructs the governor of Damascus to put an end to this shameful
practice.
 Page 217

46. On the rise in exports from Acre: Histoire du Commerce de Marseilles,

IV:92–94; on exports from Gaza: Journey to the Holy Land, fol. 140b;
Nathaniel Crouch, Two Journeys to Jerusalem, 84. On the quarrel between
merchants in Acre and Sidon, see Chambre du Commerce de Marseille,
serie J880 (Lettres de la Nation et des Deputés, 1657–1742), letter dated 25
October 1679; J772 (Acre, d'Esquissier), letters dated 9 September 1687
and 27 November 1687; J883 (Rame), letter dated 3 August 1690.

47. Ihsan al­Nimr, Tarikh Jabal Nabulus, II: 288–293.

48. JS, 107 no. 1077 (Rabi' awwal 1033/ December 1633 – January 1624);
107:309, no. 1368 (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/ January–February 1624); 201:418,
(19 Shawwal 1114/ 8 March 1703); NS, 1:129, no. 3 (awa'il Rabi' al­Thani
1067/ end of January 1656). For a detailed and interesting description of the
soap manufacturing process, see Cohen, Economic Life in Ottoman
Jerusalem, 81–85;

49. JS, 107: no. 102 (11 Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ 5 October 1623). Later on in the
same year the Balaqina tribesmen presented their claim for compensation from
their assailants and received payment: Ibid., no. 231 !awakhir Dhu al­hijja
1032/ October 1623).

50. On drought in the same year, see ibid., no. 145 (20 Shawwal 1032/ 17
August 1623). For another incident in which bedouin and villagers joined
forces, see JS, 171:592 (24 Juamada al­Akhira 1081/ 8 November 1670).

51. Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in

the Age of Philip II, 2 vols. (London, 1972). On the hilly areas, see I:53–56;
on mountains, 25–40; on plains, 85–100; on seas and shores, 103–67

52. Ibid., I:180. See also I:176–80.

53. Dale F. Eickelman, The Middle East: An Anthropological Approach

(Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1981), 65.

54. For early functionalist theories, see Talcott Parsons, The Social System
(Glencoe, Ill., 1951). For later developments in this school, see Robert K.
Merton, Social Theory and Social Structure (Glencoe, Ill., 1957). For a
critique of Parsons and early functionalist theory, see ibid., 19–84.

55. Immanuel Wallerstein, "The Rise and Future Demise of the World
Capitalist System: Concepts for Comparative Analysis," Comparative
Studies in Society and History 16.4 (September 1974): 390.

56. On the premises of this school—symbolic interaction—see Herbert

Bloomer, Symbolic Interactions: Perspective and Method (Englewood
Cliffs, N.J., 1969).

57. Clifford Geertz, "Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of

Culture," in idem, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York, 1973), 3–30.
 Page 218

58. On the Turabay court, see d'Arvieux, 12, 50, 72. On marriages with other
governing families, see Manna', "The Farrukh Governors of Jerusalem," 199.

59. One record mentions a fallah from a village in the district of Gaza who
married a bedouin girl and was held hostage by Ibn Ridwan in order to ensure
the good behavior of her tribe. See Manna', "The Farrukh Governors of
Jerusalem" 204. JS 107:354 no. 1518 (Rabi' al Thani 1033/January 1623).

60. Muhibbi, I:88; II:134–36. For bedouin in court, see JS, 107, no. 231
(awakhir Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ end of December 1623); 107:329, no. 1438
(Rabi' al­Thani 1033/ January–February 1624); 171:592 (24 Jumada al­ula
1081/ 9 October 1670). On Ridwan Pasha's relations with the bedouins, see
also Meyer, The City of Gaza, 98.

61. Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 85, doc. 38; Sharon, "The Political Role of
the Bedouins," 23n. 70; JS, 107:102 (11 Dhu al­Hijja 1032/6 October 1623);
171:592 (24 Jumada al­Ula 1081/ 9 October 1670). See also BBA, MD,
70:133, no. 260 (27 Jumada al­Akhira 1001/ 1 April 1593); 201:347 (11
Rajab 1114/ 1 December 1702).

62. According to al­Ramli'sfatawa , many peasants abandoned their villages

as a result of injustice and mistreatment by the government, and found refuge
with nomadic tribes. See Amin Seikali, "Land Tenure in 17th century Palestine:
The Evidence from the al­Fatawa al­Khairiyya," in Tarif Khalidi (ed.), Land
Tenure and Social Transformation in the Middle East (Beirut, 1984), 406.

63. See also: Bakhit, "The Harithite Family," 78.

5. Layers of Ownership

1. See Kenneth M. Cuno, "The Origins of Private Ownership of Land in

Egypt: A Reappraisal" International Journal of Middle East Studies, 12
(1980): 245–46.

2. Halil Inalcik, "Military and Fiscal Transformation in the Ottoman Empire,

1600–1700," Archivum Ottomanicum 6 (1980): 283–337

3. On the shift from timar to iltizam in the Ottoman empire, see Inalcik,
"Military and Fiscal Transformation," 327–29. On the gradual disappearance
of timars, see also Karl K. Barbir, "From Pasha to Effendi: The Assimilation
of Ottomans into Damascene Society, 1516–1783," International Journal of
Turkish Studies 1.1 (Winter 1979–80): 73; McGowan, "Land and
Agriculture," 57–59. On a similar process in Palestine, see Amnon Cohen,
Palestine in the 18th Century, 294–95.

4. The basic tenets of world economy theory in relation to the Ottoman Empire
are summarized in Immanuel Wallerstein, "The Ottoman
 Page 219

Empire and the Capitalist World Economy: Some Questions for

Research," Review 2, pt. 3 (1979): 389–401; and in Huri Islamoglu and
Çaglar Keyder, "Agenda for Ottoman History," Review 1, pt. 1 (Summer
1977): 31–55. For a partial revision of these concepts, see Chris
Wickham, "The Uniqueness of the East," in Jean Baechler, John A. Hall
and Michael Mann (eds.), Europe and the Rise of Capitalism (Oxford,
1988), 66–100.

5. Wickham, 66–70.

6. Inalcik, "Ottoman Methods of Conquest," Studia Islamica 2 (1954): 107–

9; Stanford Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey
(Cambridge, 1976), I:26; Inalcik, The Ottoman Empire—the Classical Age,
104–18; Gibb and Bowen, Islamic Civilization and the West.

7. Inalcik, "Ottoman Methods of Conquest," 112–13.

8. On the principles of the waqf institution, see W. Heffening, "Waqf"

Encyclopedia of Islam, 1st edition, (London and Leiden, 1931), 1096–1102;
S. H. Stephan, "An Endowment Deed of Khasseki Sultan, Dated the 24th of
May 1552," The Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities in Palestine
(Jerusalem and London) 10 (1944): 173–74. On waqfs in the Ottoman
Empire, see Haim Gerber, "The Waqf Institution in Early Ottoman Edirne," in
Gabriel Warburg and Gad Gilbar (eds.), Studies in Islamic Society:
Contributions in Memory of Gabriel Baer (Haifa, 1984), 29–30; Haim
Gerber, The Social Origins of the Modern Middle East, 20, 22–24. On
waqf systems in Palestine and Syria, see further Jean Paul Pascual, Damas à
la fin du XVIé siècle d'après trois actes de waqf Ottomans (Damascus,
1983); Muhammad As'ad al­Imam al­Husayni, al­Manhal al­safi fi al­waqf
wa­ahkamihi (Jerusalem, 1982). I would like to thank sheikh As'ad al­Imam
al­Husayni for his detailed explanations of problems pertaining to the waqf
institution.

9. It should be noted, though, that several times in Islamic and Ottoman

history, governments decided to obliterate waqfs or to change their
designation, ignoring the waqfiyya stipulations and circumventing the tenets of
shar'i law.

10. Shaw, The Ottoman Empire, 121; Inalcik, "Centralization and

Decentralization," 30; idem, The Ottoman Empire—The Classical Age;
Metin Kunt, The Sultan's Servants, 79–80; Inalcik, "Military and Fiscal
Transformation," 327–29. Gerber, The Social Origins of the Modern Middle
East, 53–56.

11. Abdul Rahim Abu Husayn, Provincial Leadership in Syria, 1575–1650,

(Beirut, 1985), 187, 191. See also idem, "The Iltizam of Mansur Furaykh: A
Case Study of Iltizam in Sixteenth Century Syria," in Tarif Khalidi (ed.), Land
Tenure and Social Transformation in the Middle East (Beirut, 1984), 249.
 Page 220

12. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, 222. On arpalik, see: Inalcik "Centralization

and Decentralization," 30–31. A has was defined as an estate yielding more
than 100,000 akçce a year. Has estates allocated to district governors were in
most cases larger, usually over 200,000 akçe a year. See: Gibb and Bowen,
I:48–49, 149.

13. Haim Gerber has reached a similar conclusion fromfatawa books and
sijills concerning Bursa in the seventeenth century: The Social Origins of the
Modern Middle East, 50–53.

14. NS, 1:31, no. 2 (16 Jumada al­Ula 1066/13 March 1656).

15. The villages sampled are: Al­Sawiyya, Al­'Azariyya, Bayt Hanina, Bayt
Surik, Bayt Safafa, Bayt Illu, Bayt Sahur, Bayt Imrin, Bayt Liqya, Bethlehem,
Jabariyya, Dayr Istya, Dayr Hamid, Dayr Dibwan, Dayr Sudan, Khirbat al­
Lawz, Tayba, Jericho, Lifta, Mikhmas, Sabastiya, Silwan, Sanur, 'Atara, 'Ayn
Sina, 'Isawiyya, Furaydis, and Qaqun. Villages in the sample, mentioned in
several volumes of the sijill, were checked against the mufassal registers for
Jerusalem and Nabulus, dated 1596–97/1005 (which I was able to check
through the kindness of Prof. Amnon Cohen). The assumption that most
villages did not change their status is also borne out in Amnon Cohen's book,
Palestine in the Eighteenth Century, 294–95. Cohen points to a possible
decline in the number of timars, but there are no clear indications in the sijill
for such a trend. There may have been some lessening of imperial control over
the number of timars and their allocation. See also Gerber, The Social
Origins of the Modern Middle East, 20–21. On tapu­tahrirs and their
accuracy, see also Amy Singer, "Tapu­Tahrir Defterleri and Kadi Sicilleri: A
Happy Marriage of Sources," Tarih 1 (1990): 95–125.

16. Inalcik, "Centralization and Decentralization," 30–31.

17. On the arpalik as a system, see Inalcik, "Centralization and

Decentralization," 30–31; Kunt, The Sultan's Servants, 75–76, 86. On
Jerusalem and other Palestinian districts as arpalik, see BBA, Mühimme
Defterleri, 81:27, no. 61 (3 Rabi' al­Awwal 1025/ 21 March 1616); 98:79,
no. 242 (awasit Rabi' al­Awwal 1100/beginning of January 1689); 105:7, no.
22 (awakhir Shawwal 1105/ mid­June 1694); 108:29, no. 93 (awakhir
Jumada al­Ula 1108/ mid­December 1696); 108:340, no. 1418 (awa'il Dhu
al­Hijja 1107/ beginning of July 1696); 111:253–54, no. 893, 897 (awasit
Rabi' al­Thani/ beginning of October 1699); 111:581, no. 2945 (awasit
Muharram 1113/ end of June 1701); 111:615, no. 2158 (awa'il Safar 1113/
mid­July 1701); 114:79, no. 360 (awasit Dhu al­Qa'da 1114/ beginning of
April 1703); JS, 107, no. 802 (28 Safar 1033/ 21 December 1623); 146:321
(awasit Jumada al­Ula 1062/ end of April 1652); 171:580, (awa'il Jumada al­
Ula 1081/ end of September 1670); 201:411 (Shawwal 1114/ February–
March 1703; 201:300 (16 Sha'ban 1114/5 January 1703). NS,
 Page 221

1:32, no. 3 (Jumada al­Ula 1066/February–March 1656) 1:34, no. 3

(same date). Halil Inalcik Fariba Zarinebaf and Karen Barkey,
Basbakanlik Arsivi Provincial Appointment Registers (to be
published), 71–73.

18. JS, 107, no. 436 (27 Muharram 1033/ 10 November 1623); no. 429
(Muharram 1033/ November 1623); no. 802 (28 Safar 1033/ 21 December
1623). On provincial appointments, see Inalcik, Zarinebaf and Barkey, 71. On
the Farrukh and Ridwan dynasties, see chapter 2.

19. NS, 1:108, no. 2 (end of Muharram 1067/ mid­November 1656).

20. Though the defendant's rank and status are not stated, the title implies that
he too was a member of the governing elite, probably a sipahi.

21. Turkish muhzirbasi—the official in charge of court procedure and

summoning people to court.

22. Turkish çavus—an officer of the imperial messenger corps.

23. On rijaliyya, see Cohen and Lewis, Population and Revenue, 18, 153.
Their claim that this was a tax collected from Kurdish inhabitants of Nabulus
does not fit this case.

24. On khamisiyya, see ibid., 151n. 18—a tax for holding fairs on Thursday.
See also Ihsan 'Abbas, "Hair Ad­Din Ar­Ramli's Fatawa: A New Light on Life
in Palestine in the Eleventh/ Seventeenth Century," in Ulrich Haarman and
Peter Bachmann (eds.), Die Islamische Welt Zwischen Mittelalter und
Neuzeit (beirut, 1979), 15. 'Abbas describes it as a "Thursday gift."

25. On marriage tax (rasm ankiha), see B. Lewis, "'Arus Resmi," EI2, I:679.

26. Probably a tax paid to the subashi as an additional income.

27. On bad­i hava, see Cohen and Lewis, 74. The name literally means "wind
of the air" or windfall, and was intended to denote unexpected income from
fines, prizes, etc. It became a useful name for an assortment of illegal taxes.

28. JS, 168:10 (16 Rajab 1078/ 1 January 1668).

29. Çorbaci (Arabicjurbaji )—commander of a janissary unit. See Sertoglu,

76. Since a çorbaci was not often a pasha, the actual title might have been
bashsha (Turkish beççe).

30. Bölükbasi (Arabic blukbashi)—commander of a janissary unit, similar to

çorbaci. See: Sertoglu, 57.

31. JS, 183:215 (8 Rajab 1091/ 4 August 1680). See also BBA, MD, 92:13,
no. 57 (beginning of Ramadan 1067/ mid­June 1657).

32. Bashsha (beççe in Turkish) is a title given to members of the sultan's slave
corps. See chapter 3, n. 50.

33. On the waqf of Khasiki Sultan (Haseki Sultan in Turkish), created for
and named after Kanuni Süleyman's wife, Roxellana (Haseki Hurrem Sultan),
see chapter 1, p. 27.
 32. Bashsha (beççe in Turkish) is a title given to members of the sultan's slave 
corps. See chapter 3, n. 50.

33. On the waqf of Khasiki Sultan (Haseki Sultan in Turkish), created for 
and named after Kanuni Süleyman's wife, Roxellana (Haseki Hurrem Sultan), 
see chapter 1, p. 27.

34. JS, 107, no. 696 (17 Safar 1033/ 10 December 1623).

  
 Page 222

35. The qit'a Misriyya was an Ottoman para coin minted in Cairo. The usual
rate of exchange was thirty qit'a Misriyya for one ghurosh.

36. JS 80:518, no. 2915 (12 Dhu al­Hijja 1008/ 24 June 1600). The record
further reveals that the income from the village is divided so that the Khasikiyya
waqf gets 6,000 qit'a, which is considered the village's 'ushr (land tax) and
waqf al­Malik al­Mu'ayyad gets 4,000, which is considered the village's taxes
for crops, olives and kharaj. On leasing to sipahis, see JS, 168:52 (27 Jumada
al­Ula 1078/ 2 November 1668); leasing to an 'alim—107: no. 871 (Rabi' al­
Awwal 1033/ December 1623) and 201:312 (awasit Jumada al­Ula 1114
beginning of October 1702); leasing to a former supervisor—107:256, no.
1129 (21 Rabi' al­Awwal 1033/ 12 January 1624); leasing to a governor and
a local notable—NS, 1:163, no. 2 (awa'il Rajab 1067/ end of April 1657);
leasing to janissaries—1:138, no. 2 (6 Rabi' al­Thani 1067/ 22 January 1656).

37. BBA, MD, 89:35, no. 90 (28 Ramadan 1052/ 20 December 1642). See
also 89:13, nos. 34, 35, 36, 37 (10 Rabi' al­Awwal 1052/ 8 June 1642);
89:16, no. 41, 42, 43; p. 63, no. 152 (1 Muharram 1053/ 22 March 1643).

38. See Chapter 6, p. 159–61.

39. JS, 183:239 (awakhir Rajab 1091/ end of August 1680). On renewal of
berats and minor sipahis, see also 171:396 (12 Muharram 1081/ 1 June
1670); 201:78 (7 Muharram 1113/ 15 June 1701); 201:300 (23 Muharram
1115/ 9 June 1703); BBA, MD, 110:223, no. 997 (awasit Jumada al­Akhira
1109/ end of July 1697).

40. This is also reflected in Khayr al­Din al­Ramli'sfatawa , which deny the
legal right to ownership to grant­holders. They could neither sell nor bequeath
the land. See Seikali, "Land Tenure in 17th Century Palestine," 403.

43. Ö. L. Barkan, XV ve XVI Asirlarda Osmani Imparatorlugunda Zirai

Ekonominin Hukuki ve Mâli Esaslari (Istanbul, 1943); Gabriel Baer, Mavo
le­Toldot Ha­Yehasim Ha­Agrariyim Ba­Mizrah Ha­Tikhon (Tel­Aviv,
1971), 16; Bakhit, The Province of Damascus 166; Cuno, "The Sources of
Land Ownership in Egypt," 246.

42. Mantran et Sauvaget, Règlements Fiscaux Ottomans, les Provinces

Syriennes (Beirut, 1951), 35–42; Ö. L. Barkan, Hukuki ve Mali Easaslari
vol. I, 221; See also W. D. Hütteroth and K. Abdelfattah, Historical
Geography of Palestine, Transjordan and Southern Syria in the late 16th
Century (Erlangen, 1977); Ihsan 'Abbas, "Hair ad­Din ar­Ramli's Fatawa,"
14–15. According to one of al­Ramli'sfatawa , timariots had no right to
uproot trees planted by farmers, even if he thought that by doing so he could
make the land more productive.

43. Barkan, Hukuki ve Mali Esaslari, 221; Mantran and Sauvaget, 8. See
also Halil Inalcik, "Islamization of Ottoman Laws on Land and Tax,"
 Page 223
in Christa Fragner and Klaus Schwarz (eds.), Festgabe au Josef Matuz:
Osmanistik—Turkologie—Diplomatik (Berlin, 1992), 101–18.

44. One possible indication for the tendency to increase private property by
changing land designation can be seen in the great rise in quantities of olive oil
and grapes during the sixteenth century. See Singer, Ottoman Officials and
Palestinian Peasants, 84–85.

45. Mehmet Ertugrul Düzdag, Seyhülislam Ebüssuud Efendi Fetvalari

Isiginda 16 asir Türk Hayati (Istanbul, 1972), 167. For other examples of
Ebüssuud's attempts to define property rights and reconcile the shari'a with
Ottoman land law, see Inalcik, "Islamization of Ottoman Laws" 101–7.

46. Ibid.

47. Al­Ramli, Al­Fatawa al­Khayriyya, 94–95.

48. Ibid., 94–95, 168–70. See also Seikali, "Land Tenure in 17th century
Palestine," 402–3. Seikali suggests that some of thefatwas were intended to
counter the trend of treating waqf as milk.

49. A sample of sales deeds in the sijill: NS, 1:26, no. 3 (12 Jumada al­Akhira
1066/ 7 April 1656); 1:30, no. 1 (same date); 1:39, no. 4 (8 Rajab 1066/ 2
May 1656); 1:40, no. 2 (10 Rajab 1066/ 4 May 1656); 1:46, no. 4 (Awail
Sha'ban 1066/ end of May 1656); 1:47 (same date); 1:62, no. 2 (10 Ramadan
1066/ 2 July 1656); 1:77, no. 3 (awasit Dhu al­Qa'da 1066/ beginning of
September 1656); 1:81, no. 3 (awakhir Dhu al­Hijja 1066/ mid­September
1656); 1:82, no. 4 (same date). In the Jerusalem Sijill, see most of the
examples in this and other chapters. On land sale sijill records in Anatolia, see
Gerber, The Social Origins of the Modern Middle­East, 22–24.

50. In sale transactions, bequests and leases, most property was divided at the
time into twenty­four equal shares called qirat. Smaller parts were counted in
fractions of qirats.

51. NS, 1:77, no. 3 (awasit Dhu al­Qa'da 1066/ beginning of September
1656).

52. JS, 191:97 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1100/ mid­April 1689). For an­
other record on the same matter, see ibid., 98 (same date). Al­Fatawa al­
Khayriyya, I:111.

53. Ibid., 168:15 (19 Rajab 1078/ 4 January 1668).

54. Suraya Faroqhi, Towns and Townsmen of Ottoman Anatolia

(Cambridge, 1984), 265–66.

55. JS, 125:121, no. 512 (9 Ramadan 1045/ 16 February 1636); 125:177,
no. 767 (Shawwal 1045/ March–April 1636); 168:42 (20 Rajab 1078/ 5
January 1668); 171: no. 653 (Sha'ban 1081/ December 1670 – January
1671). The record is cancelled by pen strokes, but its contents are interesting);
201:445 (14 Ramadan 1114/ February 1702). There are many other records
in each volume. NS, 1:40, no. 2 (1066/1656); 1:81, no. 3 (awakhir
 Page 224

Dhu al­Qa'da 1066/ mid­September 1656); 1:92, no. 3 (awa'il Muharram

1067/ end of October 1656).

56. Ihsan Abbas, ''Hair ad­Din ar­Ramli's Fatawa," 6; Samir Seikali, "Land
Tenure in 17th Century Palestine," 401.

57. JS, 183:164 (Rabi' awwal 1091/ April 1680).

6. An Economy in Transition

1. A. Singer, "Tapu Tahrir Defterleri and Kadi Sicilleri" 95–125.

2. Ibid. See also Cohen and Lewis, Population and Revenue, 3–12; Ö. L.
Barkan, "Research on the Ottoman Fiscal Surveys," in M. A. Cook (ed.),
Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East (Oxford, 1970).

3. Bruce McGowan, "The Study of Land and Agriculture in the Ottoman

Provinces within the Context of an Expanding World Economy in the 17th and
18th Centuries," International Journal of Turkish Studies 2. 1 (Spring–
Summer 1981): 57–58.

4. McGowan, "The Study of Land and Agriculture," 59. On leasing timars

and waqfs, see chapter 5, pp. 122–129.

5. On the akçe as money of account, see Cohen and Lewis, Population and
Revenue, 43–44.

6. On the value of Ottoman coins, see Gibb and Bowen, Islamic Society and
the West, II:51–54; Heyd, Ottoman Documents, 120; Amy Singer,
Ottoman Officials and Palestinian Peasants, xi. See also list of coins in
Ben­Zvi, Eretz­Yisrael ve­yishuva , 466; Minna Rozen, Ha­qehila ha­
yehudit 237.

7. JS, 80:26, no. 247 (2 Shawwal 1007/28 April 1599).

8. In seventeenth­century Palestine, khawaja was the common title for

notables who were not of askeri status. Later on, in the nineteenth century, it
was used to designate non­Muslim notables.

9. The title mu'allim usually refers to master craftsmen, who were authorized
to teach and initiate young apprentices.

10. The muhtasib was appointed by the local government to oversee market
activities, check weights and measures, and apply the laws and regulations of
the marketplace. See Amnon Cohen, Economic Life in Jerusalem, 11–18.
On the 'Asali family, see above, chapter 3. On the Duhayna family, see A.
Cohen, Economic Life in Jerusalem, 30–34.

11. JS, 85:55, no. 244 (8 Shawwal 1013/27 February 1605). The dinar is
apparently the old Ottoman coin known as altin. The value of the altin, at first
more or less equivalent to the Venetian Ducat, was frequently devalued during
the sixteenth century. Sharifi (Serifi) and Ibrahimi are kinds of Altin coins.

12. For information about the value of the kurus, see JS, 28, no. 199 (14
Sha'baan 100/12 March 1599); 85:47, no. 207 (awasit Ramadan 1013/
 11. JS, 85:55, no. 244 (8 Shawwal 1013/27 February 1605). The dinar is 
apparently the old Ottoman coin known as altin. The value of the altin, at first
more or less equivalent to the Venetian Ducat, was frequently devalued during 
the sixteenth century. Sharifi (Serifi) and Ibrahimi are kinds of Altin coins.

12. For information about the value of the kurus, see JS, 28, no. 199 (14 
Sha'baan 100/12 March 1599); 85:47, no. 207 (awasit Ramadan 1013/

  
 Page 225

beginning of February 1605); 107:266, no. 1162 (27 Rabi' al­Awwal

1033/19 January 1624); 171:185 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1080/end of
November 1669); 177:48 (20 Dhu al­Qa'da 1085/15 February 1675).
On the frequent use of Dutch löwen rikstalers and Spanish reals towards
the end of the century, see JS, 191:76 (awa'il Jumada al­Ula 1100/ end of
February 1689). See also the frequent references to kurus (ghurosh) in
this and other chapters.

13. Ö. L. Barkan, "The Price Revolution of the Sixteenth Century,"

International Journal of Middle East Studies 6 (1975): 3–28; Halil Inalcik,
"The Ottoman Economic Mind and Aspects of the Ottoman Economy," in M.
A. Cook (ed.) Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East
(Oxford, 1978), 215.

14. Al­malik al­Ashraf Qayitbay, the last great Mamluk sultan, ruled the
sultanate from 1468 to 1496.

15. McGowan, "Land and Agriculture" 57, 59; Gibb and Bowen, Islamic
Society and the West, I:37, 43; Mantran and Sauvaget, Règlements fiscaux,
8.

16. Alan Makovsky, "Sixteenth Century Agricultural Production in the Liwa of

Jerusalem: Insights from the Tapu Defters and an Attempt at Quantification"
Archivum Ottomanicum 9 (1984): 102; Amy Singer, Palestinian Peasants
and Ottoman Officials, 32–45. On changes in the agrarian system, see
chapter 5.

17. McGowan, "Land and Agriculture" 58; Inalcik, "Military and Fiscal
Transformation," 314–5; Metin Kunt, The Sultan's Servants, 79–82. On
restricted use of avariz taxes in the sixteenth century, see A. Singer, Ottoman
Officials and Palestinian Peasants, 96–97.

18. Yerliyya (literally, "local") units were provincial janissary forces fashioned
to fit the mould of imperial janissary battalions.

19. BBA, MD 106:120 no. 417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/May–June 1695).

20. Selamlik—named after the public part of the house where male guests are
usually entertained. See Inalcik, "Military and Fiscal Transformation," 320.

21. Musahara—a monthly gift.

22. Bad­i hava (literally, "wind of the air") is a general term for all irregular and
occasional revenues. See above, chapter 5, p. 124 and Lewis and Cohen,
Population and Revenue, 74–75.

23. Defter is a notebook or register. Here the term probably refers to the
tahrir surveys, which were meant to define the amount of money to be
collected from each household.

24. BBA, MD, 76:120, no. 417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/May–June 1695).

25. JS, 153 (awamir):15 (awakhir Jumada al­Ula 1067/March 1657). In the
version of the edict copied into the sijill, the village is not mentioned by name.
 collected from each household.

24. BBA, MD, 76:120, no. 417 (awasit Shawwal 1106/May–June 1695).

25. JS, 153 (awamir):15 (awakhir Jumada al­Ula 1067/March 1657). In the 
version of the edict copied into the sijill, the village is not mentioned by name.

  
 Page 226

26. JS, 125:80, no. 336 (Sha'ban 1045/January–February 1636); 169:51 (3

Muharram 1080/3 June 1669); 169:71 (20 Safar 1080/20 July 1669); BBA,
MD, 110:490, no. 2213–2214 (awa'il Ramadan 1110/ beginning of March
1699). On the allocation of taxes in the sixteenth century in the district itself see
Cohen and Lewis Population and Revenue, 95–104.

27. JS, 169:51 (3 Muharram 1080/3 June 1669); 169:71 (20 Safar 1080/20
July 1669).

28. This small fortress was built by the Ottomans in the seventeenth century to
guard water cisterns that supplied Jerusalem and to defend travelers on the
road from Jerusalem to Hebron. Heyd, Ottoman Documents on Palestine,
146–49, 190.

29. Huri Islamoglu and Çaglar Keyder, "Agenda for Ottoman History,"
Review 1.1 (Summer 1977) 44–45. The terms "Asian mode of production" or
"Asiatic mode of production" refer to Marx's famous assertions that conditions
in certain Asian societies have brought forth a structure of production relations
that does not permit evolution through the necessary stages of history towards
socialism. This term was used by Marxist historians to describe various
societies in and out of Asia which failed to develop according to the Marxist
outline. For an analysis of the term, its development by Marx himself and its
use by later Marxist historians, see Perry Anderson, Lineages of the
Absolutist State (London, 1974), 482–92.

30. Near the village of Salfit, southwest of Nabulus.

31. NS, 1:243 (20 Jumaada al­Ula 1066/17 March 1656).

32. NS, 1:47 (awa'il Sha'ban 1066/May–June 1656).

33. See JS, 183:117 (Safar 1091/March 1680).

34. The term ta'ifa was used to designate all kinds of groups in the city—
religious minorities, army units, official and unofficial clergy, Sufi brotherhoods,
etc. The entire city was divided into merging tawa'if, which were seen as the
main administrative link between government and subjects/citizens in an urban
setting. See Haim Gerber, Economy and Society in an Ottoman City: Bursa
1600–1700 (Jerusalem, 1988) p. 34 and also M. E. Yapp, The Making of
the Modern Middle East, 1792–1923 (New York, 1987), 24.

35. A barber (hallaq) was also a surgeon and sometimes a pharmacist too.
Their taifa was considered a prestigious one.

36. NS, 1:64, no.1 (awakhir Ramadan 1066/mid­July 1656).

37. See Amnon Cohen's description in Economic Life in Ottoman

Jerusalem, 21. See also Gerber, Economy and Society, 40–41.

38. This could give us a further indication of the value of coins in 1624: one
löwentaler was worth 8.33 dirham of silver.
 Page 227

39. JS, 107, no. 1088 (13 Rabi' al­Awwal 1033/4 January 1624). On the
appointment of ta'ifa sheikhs, see 107:138, no. 612 (Safar 1033/December
1623); 107:248, no. 1094 (22 Rabi' al­Awwal 1033/13 January 1624);
170:29 (10 Sha'ban 1079/13 January 1669); 171:602 (end of Jumada al­
Aakhira 1081/mid­November 1670); 171:692 (Rajab 1081/ November–
December 1670); 183:223 (awasit Rabi' al­Thani 1091/mid­May 1680). For
a description of seventeenth­century appointments of guild masters see Inalcik,
"The Ottoman Economic Mind," 216.

40. "Wa­lam yusawi ma'hum fi ma'anihim wa­magharimihim hasab al­'ada al­

qadima kull man ba'a wa­ishtara min al­khudar bi­l­suq yusawi jama'atahu."

41. JS, 201:12 (awasit Rabi' al­Thani 1114/August–September 1702). About

price lists see also Gerber, Economy and Society, p. 54.

42. JS, 171:590 (11 Jumada al­akhira 1081/26 October 1670).

43. Bashsha (beççe in Turkish) was a title given to junior officers of the
sultan's slave corps. Its use in this context is yet another layer of evidence for
the integration of the military into local economy, or vice versa—merchants
and craftsmen being able to buy military ranks.

44. JS, 171:590 (25 Sha'ban 1081/7 January 1671).

45. A rassas is a dealer in lead or tin. It is not clear whether this was a
description of the person's initial profession, or whether this was the family's
name.

46. Kayyal bashi—official "measurer" in charge of weighing and measuring in

the market. The kayyal bashi was also entrusted with weighing and assessing
the taxes paid in kind. See Amnon Cohen, Economic Life in Ottoman
Jerusalem, 107.

47. JS, 171:190 (4 Rajab 1080/28 November 1669). See also 169:16 (Dhu
al­Hijja 1079/May 1669); 107:145 (20 Shawwal 1032/17 August 1623).

48. On the importance attached to constant supply, see Inalcik, "The Ottoman
Economic Mind," 215–17.

49. The edict, like many others, refers to the governors and their retinues as a
ta'ifa in its own right: "fa ­'amara mawlana 'ala ta'ifat ahl al­'urf."

50. JS, 201:313 (awasit Jumada al­Ula 1114/October 1702).

51. BBA, MD, 111:508, no. 1763 (awasi Rabi' al­Thani 1112/end of
September 1700).

52. JS, 201:356 (12 Rabi' al­Thani 1114/ 5 September 1702).

53. Amnon Cohen, "Ottoman Rule and the Re­emergence of the Coast of
Palestine," Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Mediteranee 39 (1985);
Ralph Davis, "English Imports from the Levant, 1580–1780," in M.A. Cook
(ed.), Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East (Oxford, 1970),
202–3. On export prohibitions, see Heyd, Ottoman Documents,
 53. Amnon Cohen, "Ottoman Rule and the Re­emergence of the Coast of 
Palestine," Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Mediteranee 39 (1985); 
Ralph Davis, "English Imports from the Levant, 1580–1780," in M.A. Cook 
(ed.), Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East (Oxford, 1970), 
202–3. On export prohibitions, see Heyd, Ottoman Documents,

  
 Page 228

130; Inalcik "The Ottoman Economic Mind," 217; Barkan, "Sixteenth­

Century Price Revolution."

54. On the importance of trade in cotton and soap ashes, see Archives du
Chambre de Commerce de Marseilles (ACCM) H196 (coton 1629–1791);
J880 (Acre, Lettres de la nation et des deputés) 25 Octobre 1679; J772
(Lettres de Joseph d'Esquissier des Tourres) 27 Novembre 1688, and many
others. On irregular purchases of wheat, see ibid., H105 (blé) 1702.

55. From the Hebrew translation in Joel Raba, Eretz­Yisra'el be­te'urey

nos'im Rusiyim (Russian Travel Accounts on Palestine) (Jerusalem, 1986),
233.

56. Nathaniel Crouch, Two Journeys to Jerusalem (London, n.d.), 84.

57. ACCM, J883 (Rame ­ Lettres des vice­consuls etc. 3.8.1690). About
raids on the port of Jaffa, see also Archives Nationales, AE bIII, v. 34, 307–
8 (24 Juillet 1689); Histoire du Commerce de Marseille, V:395
(19.6.1689). BBA, MD, 100:64, no. 234 (awakhir Muharram
1102/November 1690). See also A. Cohen, "Re­Emergence of the Coast of
Palestine," 166.

58. BBA, 99:132, no. 421 (awakhir Jumada al­Akhira 1102/ March 1691).

59. JS, 201:488 (19 Dhu al­Qa'da 1114/7 April 1703); 201:290 (Muharram
1115/ May–June 1703); Cohen, "Re­Emergence of the Coast of Palestine,"
166.

60. Public Records Office, SP110 (Levant Company reports) bundles 10–
15. Purchases of soap and cotton in Acre and Ramla, see also ACCM, J772
(Acre—Lettres du consul d'Esquissier, 1682–1692), lettre du 27 Novembre
1688.

61. François Charles­Roux, Les Echelles de Syrie et de Palestine au 18é

siècle (Paris, 1928), 6–9; Histoire du commerce de Marseille, V:399–400;
IV.96; François Charles du Rozel, Voyage de Jerusalem (Paris, 1864), 114–
15.

62. JS, 107, no. 531 (14 Safar 1033/ 7 December 1623).

63. BBA, MD, 79:408, no. 1018 (17 Shawwal 1019/ 2 January 1611); 92:57
(awa'il Dhu al­Qa'da 1067/August 1657); 94:20, no. 90 (awa'il Dhu al­Qa'da
1073/ June 1663); 94:42, no. 216 (awasit Shawwal 1075/ May 1665); 95,
no. 554 (awakhir Dhu al­Qa'da 1075/June 1665); 100:64, no. 234 (awakhir
Muharram 1102/ November 1690).

64. A. Rabbath, Documents inédits pour servir à l'histoire du

Christianisme en Orient (Paris, 1905–1913; repr. New York, 1973), I:344–
345. This story is told in further detail in chapter 1.

65. ACCM, J880 (Lettres de la nation et des deputés 1567–1742): "et c'est
asses avoir souffert une anné dans un lieu sy mizerable ou nous avons perdu
beaucoup de nos messieurs." See also Histoire du commerce de Marseille,
IV:96.

66. Alfred C. Wood, A History of the Levant Company (Oxford: 1935) p.

 345. This story is told in further detail in chapter 1.

65. ACCM, J880 (Lettres de la nation et des deputés 1567–1742): "et c'est 
asses avoir souffert une anné dans un lieu sy mizerable ou nous avons perdu 
beaucoup de nos messieurs." See also Histoire du commerce de Marseille, 
IV:96.

66. Alfred C. Wood, A History of the Levant Company (Oxford: 1935) p. 
161; BBA, MD, 94:27, no. 127 (awakhir Rabi' al­Thani 1073/mid­December

  
 Page 229

1662); 94:20, no. 20 (awaa'il Dhu al­Qa'da 1073/mid­June 1663) 94:42,

no. 216 (awasit Shawwal 1075/beginning of May 1665); Charles­Roux,
Echelles, 195.

67. "N'est pas d'une qualité convenable aux manufactures des Lyonois."

68. ACCM, H196 (coton, 1629–1791), Arrest du Conseil d'État du Roy,

1700.

69. Ibid., documents from the year 1711.

70. Benjamin Braude, "International Competition and Domestic Cloth in the

Ottoman Empire, 1500–1650: A Study in Underdevelopment" Review 2. 3
(1979), 450–451.

71. See the special issue of Review devoted to these questions (Review 2.3)
as well as Sevket Pamuk, The Ottoman Empire and European Capitalism,
1820­1913—Trade, Investment and Production (Cambridge, 1987); Huri
Islamoglu­Inan (ed.), The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy
(Cambridge, 1987), and others.

72. Islamoglu and Keyder, "Agenda for Ottoman History," 41.

73. According to this terminology a world­economy is defined as a single

division of labor with multiple polities and cultures, while a world­empire is
defined as a unit with a single division of labor and multiple cultural systems but
with one overarching political system. See I. Wallerstein, "The Rise and Future
Demise of the World Capitalist System," 390–91.

74. Braude, "International Competition and Domestic Cloth"; S. Faroqhi, Men

of Modest Substance, 209–12.

7. Worlds Apart

1. In many cases travelers did not hesitate to describe their contempt for the
land and its people. With very little understanding of Islam or local custom, the
English traveler Maundrel, who visited Palestine at the end of the seventeenth
century writes to one of his readers: "Their religion is framed to keep up great
outward gravity and solemnity, without begetting the least good tincture of
wisdom or virtue in the mind." In Thomas Wright (ed.), Early Travels in
Palestine (New York, 1968), 505. Others described the entire country as a
den of thievery, sodomy and bestiality: "There is no evil deed on this earth not
performed by the inhabitants of this terra sancta or holy land which hath the
name and nothing else." In Nathaniel Crouch, Two Journeys to Jerusalem
(London, 1699, manuscript in the SOAS library), 74–75. These views
persisted well into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

2. Eugene Roger, La Terre Sainte, ou Description très particulier de la

Terre de promission (Paris: 1664), 296–308. The views of Roger described
in the next few paragraphs are all summed up in these pages. For Western
 Page 230

physicians treating Muslim women, see also L. Hayes, Baron de

Courmenin, Voyage de Levant, Fait par le Commendement du Roi en
l'année 1621 (Paris, 1629), 163.

3. Laurent d'Arvieux, Voyage dans la Palestine (Amsterdam, 1718). Apart

from Roger, d'Arvieux is perhaps the most notable traveler to have written
about women in this period, although his emphasis is on bedouin women of the
Turabay family.

4. Antoine Morison, Relation historique d'un voyage nouvellement fait au

Mont de Sinaï et à Jerusalem (Paris, 1705). See also Jean Doubdan, Le
Voyage de la Terre Sainte (Paris, 1666). French travelers seem to have
attained the highest degree of cross­cultural understanding and a keen interest
in other societies, that is evidently lacking in most other travel accounts of the
period. English travelers usually dismiss local Muslim, and even Christian
society with a few sentences, and do their best to emulate their compatriots'
descriptions of holy Christian monuments. Italian travelers, very prominent in
the Mamluk period, left a much smaller impact on seventeenth­ and eighteenth­
century literature.

5. Roger, La Terre Sainte, 297—"Soit que le mari luy agrée ou non, il faut
qu'elle y consente."

6. D'Arvieux, Voyage dans la Palestine, 221: "Comme les Arabes n'ont

aucune communication avec les femmes ni avec les filles d'autrui, ils ne
sauroient etre amoureux que par imagination, ou sur le rapport qu'on leur en
fait. Ils ne leur approchent point, et ne leur voient en public que par hazard et
un peu de loin."

7. See also d'Arvieux, ibid.; Morison, Relation Historique, 710.

8. d'Arvieux, ibid.

9. Morison, 710.

10. This term does not exist in Palestinian Arabic today. Roger may have got it
wrong. Perhaps the word used was kitab, or maktab, or another derivation of
the root k*t*b.

11. See also d'Arvieux, Voyage dans la Palestine, 222.

12. Ibid., 225–26.

13. D'Arvieux, Voyage dans la Palestine, 218.

14. Roger, La Terre Sainte, 299.

15. See also d'Arvieux, Voyage dans la Palestine, 214.

16. It is interesting to see how nineteenth­century English women travelers

created an entirely different description of Oriental women, to serve as a
model of liberty and virtue in comparison with Victorian society. See Billie
Melman, Women's Orients, especially chapter 3.

17. About questions of privacy in a neighboring Muslim society, see Abraham

Marcus, "Privacy in Eighteenth Century Aleppo: The Limits
 16. It is interesting to see how nineteenth­century English women travelers 
created an entirely different description of Oriental women, to serve as a 
model of liberty and virtue in comparison with Victorian society. See Billie 
Melman, Women's Orients, especially chapter 3.

17. About questions of privacy in a neighboring Muslim society, see Abraham 
Marcus, "Privacy in Eighteenth Century Aleppo: The Limits

  
 Page 231

of Cultural Ideals," International Journal of Middle East Studies 18,

(1986): 165–67.

18. The Khasikiyya waqf was a large endowment made by Khaseki Hurrem
Sultan (Roxellana), wife of Kanuni Sultan Süleyman (the Magnificent) in 1552,
to build and provide for a mosque­madrasa­imaret complex in Jerusalem.
Many villages, including Bayt Iksa, paid their taxes directly to the waqf. Waqf
officials had some responsibility for maintaining law and order inside the village.
See Oded Peri, "The Waqf as an Instrument to Increase and Consolidate
Political Power," 47–62. See also, chapter 6.

19. Cokdar—(cuhadar), literally, carrier of the cloth, an important official in

the Kapi Kullari. See M. Pakalin, Osmanli Tarih deyimleri ve terimleri
(Istanbul, 1946), I:384. The muhdir was an officer responsible for bringing
people to court.

20. JS, 191:116 (10 Rajab 1100/30 April 1689). For other instances of
accidents involving women, see ibid., 191:67 (3 Jumada al­Akhira 1100/25
March 1689); 183:227, (awasit Rajab 1091/ mid­Aug. 1680); NS, 1:83, no.
2 (2 Dhu al­Hijja 1066/21 September 1656).

21. Bashsha (beççe) is a Persian word meaning "swallow chick." This is the
title given to a member of the Kapi Kullari, usually of the acemi oglan
(external service). See Pakalin, I:184.

22. JS, 183:62 (Safar 1091/ March 1680).

23. JS, 177:172 (11 Sha'ban 1100/31 May 1689); Khayr al­Din al­Ramli, Al­
Fatawa al­Khayriyya (Bulaq, 1300), I. 19–21.

24. Christians and Jews, recognized by the Ottomans as autonomous

communities (millets) had the right to maintain their own legal systems. In
many cases, however, they preferred to present their case at the shari'a court.
Sometimes the reasons had to do with the qadi's greater authority and ability to
punish and exact payment, sometimes (as in this case, probably) with laws that
were better disposed toward the plaintiff. No similar cases involving Jewish
women were found.

25. The term mahr is sometimes translated as "bride­price," implying that it

was payed to the bride's relatives. Since this was not always the case in
Ottoman Jerusalem, the original term seems more appropriate.

26. "Bi­allah al­'azim al­qadir al­qahir alladhi anzala al­injil 'ala 'Isa bin
Maryam."

27. NS, 1:55 (14 Sha'ban 1066/31 May 1689).

28. Ramli, al­Fataawa al­Khayriyya, I:19–20. JS, 107:260, no. 1149 (Rabi'
Awwal 1033/January 1624); 177:46 (6 Dhu al­Qa'da 1085/ 31 January
1675); 183:137 (Jumada al­Ula 1091/ June 1680); 201:325 (20 Jumada al­
Ula 1114/12 October 1702); NS, 1:246, and others. The number of requests
for abrogation of marriage agreements and dissolution of marriage is
 28. Ramli, al­Fataawa al­Khayriyya, I:19–20. JS, 107:260, no. 1149 (Rabi' 
Awwal 1033/January 1624); 177:46 (6 Dhu al­Qa'da 1085/ 31 January 
1675); 183:137 (Jumada al­Ula 1091/ June 1680); 201:325 (20 Jumada al­
Ula 1114/12 October 1702); NS, 1:246, and others. The number of requests 
for abrogation of marriage agreements and dissolution of marriage is

  
 Page 232

particularly surprising when compared to the small number of such requests

in the modern era. Compare with Aharon Layish, Women and Islamic
Law in a Non­Muslim State (Jerusalem, 1975), 163–72. For the use of
wakil at the time in other parts of the empire, see R. C. Jennings, "The
Office of Vekil (Wakil) in 17th Century Ottoman Sharica Courts" Studia
Islamica 42 (1979): 147–68.

29. It is almost impossible to know from the text itself whether these queries
were written by women (indicating that at least some knew how to read and
write), whether they were helped by literate men, or whether they presented
themselves in person or sent another man or an older woman to present their
case.

30. Ramli, al­Fatawa al­Khayriyya, 1:28. See also p. 29 on the same

subject.

31. See JS, 107:790 (Safar 1033/December 1623).

32. See, for example, JS, 125:131 (Ramadan 1045/ February 1636). At the
request of a wife the qadi adds a stipulation to the marriage agreement
whereby the husband vows that if he beats his wife again, she would
automatically be allowed to divorce him.

33. Husband's impotence as cause for divorce: JS, 107:790 (Safar 1033/
December 1623); husband's absence: 107:260,(Rabi' Awwal 1033/ January
1624); NS 1:75; 246; JS, 183:56 (Safar 1091/March 1680); 201:317 (20
Jumada al­Ula 1114/ 12 October 1702); mistreatment and abuse: JS, 125:131
(Ramadan 1045/ February 1636); renunciation of dower: NS, 1:137; JS,
177:68 (15 Dhu al­Hijja 1085/12 March 1675); 177:81 (awa'il Muharram
1086/ April 1675). On preconditions for marriage, including "parity of status,"
see Jamal J. Nasir, The Islamic Law of Personal Status (London, 1986),
54. On dissolution of marriage in the various schools of law, see Keith
Hodkinson, Muslim Family Law: A Sourcebook (London, 1984), 224;
Nasir, The Islamic Laws of Personal Status, 114. According to Nasir, "the
Hanafis maintain that dissolution of marriage is the exclusive right of the
husband, with the court having to intervene only in the event of a serious genital
defect such as impotence or castration."

34. Za'im—holder of a zeamet, a large timar estate.

35. The term used is min 'Ismatihi, literally, "from his protection (or custody)."

36. JS, 191:43 (awasit Jumada al­Ula 1100/March 1689).

37. For a description of women's conduct in the imperial palace along siniflar
lines, see Leslie Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 6–7, 198–216.

38. N. J. Coulson, Succession in the Muslim Family (Cambridge, 1971),

40–47.

39. Judith Tucker, Women in Nineteenth Century Egypt (Cambridge,

Mass., 1985), 43–46.

40. See, for example, JS, 107:49 (Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ October 1623).
 38. N. J. Coulson, Succession in the Muslim Family (Cambridge, 1971), 
40–47.

39. Judith Tucker, Women in Nineteenth Century Egypt (Cambridge, 
Mass., 1985), 43–46.

40. See, for example, JS, 107:49 (Dhu al­Hijja 1032/ October 1623).

  
 Page 233

41. Women heirs are most often mentioned when selling their property. See
JS, 107: 284, 318, 324 (5 Rabi' al­Thani 1033/ 26 January 1624); 125:65
(Rajab 1045/ December 1635 – January 1636); 177:85 (10 Muharram
1086/6 April 1675); 177:97 (Muharram 1086/April 1675); 183:183 (Jumada
al­Ula 1091/June 1680); 201:380 (Awakhir Jumada al­Ahira 1114/mid­
November 1702).

42. On moneylending, see JS, 183:236 (awakhir Rajab 1091/September

1680). A Jewish woman moneylender: 191: 76 (awaI'il Jumada al­Ula 1100/
February 1689).

43. See, for example, NS, 1:25 (12 Jumada al­Ula 1066/9 March 1656).

44. Suraya Faroqhi, Men of Modest Substance: House Owners and House
Property in Seventeenth Century Ankara and Kaiseri (Cambridge, 1987),
159–60. On women buying property in Jerusalem, see JS, 107, no. 471 (21
Muharram 1033/ 14 November 1623); 107: no. 668 (Safar 1033/
November–December 1623); 107:310, no. 1369 (Rabi' al­Thani 1033/
January–February 1624); 125:15, no. 71 (Jumada al­Ula 1045/ October–
November 1635); 125: 170, no. 746 (Shawwal 1045/ March–April 1636);
168: 57, (20 Ramadan 1078/ 5 March 1668); 168: 62, (Rajab 1078/
December 1667 – January 1668); 168: 92 (same date); NS, 1:25, no. 2 (12
Jumada al­Ula 1066/ 9 March 1656). This situation continued in eighteenth­
century Aleppo. See Abraham Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of
Modernity (New York, 1989), 54. According to Marcus, 40 percent of
sellers and buyers of houses in Aleppo were women.

45. This is part of the formula used in the shari'a court to ascertain that all
aspects of private property were examined by the court and that the property
can be sold by the person offering it for sale (ma huwwa laha, wa­jari fi
mulkiha, wa­taht tasarrufiha, wa­yadduha wadI'a 'ala dhalika ).

46. For purposes of transactions or inheritance, property was divided in most

cases into twenty­four parts called qirat. Parts smaller than one qirat were
usually counted as simple fractions of a qirat. One could inherit, for instance,
five and one­third qirats (5 1/3 /24) of a house or orchard.

47. JS, 177: 90 (14 Muharram 1086/ 10 April 1675).

48. See Leslie Peirce, The Imperial Harem, especially 186–216.

49. A similar situation existed in eighteenth­century Aleppo, see Abraham

Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of Modernity, 53.

50. JS, 177:47 (20 Dhu al­Qa'da 1085/ 15 February 1675); 177: 91 (15
Muharram 1086/11 April 1676).

51. Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname (Istanbul, 1935), IX:497; R. C. Jennings,

"Women in Early­Seventeenth­Century Ottoman Judicial Records: The Sharia
Court of Anatolian Kaiseri," Journal of the Economic and Social
 Page 234

History of the Orient 18 (1975): 53–114; Haim Gerber, Social and

Economic Position of Women in an Ottoman City, Bursa, 1600–1700,''
International Journal of Middle East Studies 12 (1980): 231–44; Leslie
Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 141.

52. Roger Chartier, "Texts, Printing, Reading," in Lynn Hunt (ed.), The New
Cultural History (Berkeley, 1989), 154–75.

53. See a similar dilemma described by Leslie Peirce, The Imperial Harem,
117–18.

54. False impressions were by no means limited to the West. Muslim travelers
visiting the West had their own stereotypes and misconceptions. The liberal
attitude towards women in the West was interpreted as shocking sexual
behavior. One Moroccan ambassador to Europe in the eighteenth century
remarked:
Their dwellings have windows overlooking the street, where the women sit
all the time, greeting the passersby. Their husbands treat them with the
greatest courtesy. The women are very much addicted to conversation and
conviviality with men other than their husbands, in company or in private.
They are not restrained from going wherever they think fit. It often happens
that a Christian returns to his home and finds his wife or his daughter or his
sister in the company of another Christian, a stranger, drinking together
and leaning against one another. He is delighted with this and, according to
what I am told, he esteems it as a favor from the Christian who is in the
company of his wife or whichever other woman of his household it may be.

[…] When the party dispersed we returned to our lodgings and we prayed
to God to save us from the wretched state of these infidels who are devoid
of manly jealousy and are sunk in unbelief and we implored the Almighty
not to hold us accountable for our offense in conversing with them as the
circumstances required.

See Bernard Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe (New York,

1982), 288.

55. See Leslie Peirce, The Imperial Harem, 7–12.

56. The advantages of seclusion and segregation were more readily

understood by women travelers who visited the area in later centuries. In their
eyes, however, seclusion was mistakenly identified with privacy, a projection
of Victorian values onto the local harem system. See Billie Melman, Women's
Orients, 139–48.

57. See Billie Melman, Women's Orients, 85–87.

 Page 235

58. On the other hand, as Beth Baron has shown in her research on marriage
in Egypt, another Western influence—the idea of romance—pulled in the
opposite direction, towards greater access to divorce. See Beth Baron, "The
Making and Breaking of Marital Bonds in Modern Egypt," in N. Keddie and
B. Baron (eds.), Women in Middle Eastern History (New Haven and
London, 1991), 284–87.
 Page 237

Bibliography

Archival Material

Court Records (sijills) in the Archive of the Jerusalem Shari'a Court:

Vol. 80 (1008–1009h./1599–1600)

Vol. 85 (1012–1013h./1603–1604)

Vol. 98 (1024–1025h./1615–1616)

Vol. 107 (1032–1033h./1622–1623)

Vol. 125 (1045h./1635–1636)

Vol. 146 (1061–1062h./1650–1651)

Vol. 153 (1067—1070h./1656–1660, awamir)

Vol. 168 (1078–1079h./1667–1668)

Vol. 169 (1079–1080h./1668–1670)

Vol. 170 (1080–1081h./1669–1670)

Vol. 177 (1085–1086h./1674–1675)

Vol. 180 (1088–1089h./1677–1678)

Vol. 183 (1091h./1680)

Vol. 191 (1100h./1688–1689)

Vol. 201 (1113–1115h./1701–1704)

Sijill in the Archive of the Nabulus Shari'a Court:

Vol. 1 (1066–1068/1655–1658)

Archives of the Prime Minister's Office in Istanbul (BBA):

Mühimme Defterleri, vols. 68–115 (998–1120h./1599–1708)

Zeyl­i Mühimme, vol. 11 (1108/1696–1697)

Maliyeden Müdevver, no. 2841 (1048/1638)

Marseilles Chamber of Commerce (Chambre de Commerce de

Marseilles):

H105 (Blé, 1631–1773)

H196 (Coton, 1629–1791)

 Marseilles):

H105 (Blé, 1631–1773)

H196 (Coton, 1629–1791)

  
 Page 238

I1 (Statistiques, 1680–1683)

J772 (Lettres de Joseph d'Esquissier des Tourres, Consul, Âcre 1686–

1692)

J878 (Lettres des Consuls de Jérusalem, 1699–1700)

J879 (Âcre, Lettres des ViceConsuls, 1657–1782)

J880 (Âcre, Lettres de la Nation et des Deputés de la Nation, 1657–

1742)

J883 (Lettres des Vice­Consuls etc., Rame)

Archives Nationales, Paris

Affaires Étrangères:

Serie B1 (Correspondance Consulaire)—628: (Jérusalem 1699–1717)

Serie B3 (Levant et Barbarie)—1, 34–36, 125, 129

Serie B7 (Marine)—59, 205, 208

Public Record Office, London:

SP97—State Papers, Turkey

Levant Company

SP105, no. 110 (Out letters)

SP110—Aleppo, Factory and Consulate Records, bundles 10–14

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 Index

  
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Name Index

Abu­Lughod, Janet, 16­17 199n28

Abou el­Haj, Rifaat, 62­64

Ahmad ibn Ridwan, 53, 71

'Alam al­Din Sulayman (maghribi sufi), 72

D'Arvieux, Laurent, 174, 175, 176

al­'Alami, 'Abd ql­Qadir, 72­73, 75

al'­Alami, muhammad, 22

'Assaf Farrukh, 58

Baer, Gabriel, 129

Bahram Pasha (Kara Shahin Mustafa's son), 52

Barbir, Karl, 66, 76

Barkan, Ömer Lutfi, 129, 135­136

Baron, Beth, 235n58

Bayezit, 40

Bowen, H., 64

Braude, Benjamin, 167

Braudel, Fernand, 108­109, 199n22

Chartier, Roger, 186

Cohen, Amnon, 23, 103

Dahir al­'Umar, 114, 194

al­Dajjani Abu al­Fath, 25

Darnton, Robert, 79

E
Dahir al­'Umar, 114, 194

al­Dajjani Abu al­Fath, 25

Darnton, Robert, 79

Ebusuud Seyhülislam Efendi (famous mufti), 131

Eickelman, Dale, 16, 25­26, 91, 109, 119, 185, 201n55

Fakhr al­Din al­M'ani (the second), 4, 20­21, 40­41, 43, 45, 49, 57, 101, 
165, 170, 174, 194

Faroqhi, Suraya, 17­18, 135­136, 184

Farrukh Bey (governor of Jerusalem), 96, 208n46

Findley, Carter, 54

Geertz, Clifford, 110

Gerber, Haim, 95, 185

Gibb, H.A.R., 64

Von Grünebaum, Gustav, 15­16

Hasan Pasha Ridwan, 55

Hattox, Ralph, 29

Haseki Sultan (Khasiki), 4

Heyd, Uriel, 93, 95, 98, 102, 205n7

Hourani, Albert, 16, 64­66, 84

Husayn Pasha Ridwan, 71, 208n43

al­Husayni 'Abd al­Qadir, 74­75

Ibn Khaldun, 92­93, 109

Ibn Mashish (famous saint), 72

Ibn Tulun, 2

Inlacik, Halil, 65, 66, 121

Islamoglu­Inan, Huri, 152, 169, 226n29

Janbulad (the rebel), 43
 Inlacik, Halil, 65, 66, 121

Islamoglu­Inan, Huri, 152, 169, 226n29

Janbulad (the rebel), 43

al­Jazzar, 194

Jennings, Ronald C., 185

al­Khasikiyya, 4

Kara Shahin Mustafa Pasha (Ridwan's father), 53

Keyder, Çaglar, 152, 169, 226n29

Kha'ir (Hayir) bey, 1

Khasiki Hurrem Sultan (Roxellana), 13, 27, 199

  
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Köprülü Mehmet (grand vezir), 57, 192

Kunt, Metin, 37­38, 52, 61­62

Lapidus, Ira, 15­16, 18

Lewis, Bernard, 23

Lukaris, Cyril, 22

Mabro, Judy, 188

Marçais, 15­16

Manna', 'Adil, 95­97

McGowan, Bruce, 146

Morison, Antoine, 29, 174­176

Al­Muhibbi, Muhammad Amin, 11, 41, 43­44, 46, 53­54, 58, 59, 69, 71,
73, 83

Al­Muradi, Muhammad, 73

Murtada Pasha governor of Gaza), 164

Musa Pasha Ridwan, 58

Al­Nabulsi, 'Abd al­Ghani, 69, 73

Peirce, Leslie, 30, 185

al­Ramli, Khayr al­Din, 71, 132, 134, 137­138, 181, 218n62

Rafeq, Abdul Karim, 84, 85

Roger, Eugène, 174, 176, 182

Salah al­Din al­ Ayyubi, 28

Shabbetai, Zevi, 22

Sharon, Moshe, 94­97

 S

Salah al­Din al­ Ayyubi, 28

Shabbetai, Zevi, 22

Sharon, Moshe, 94­97

Stern, S.M., 16

Sultan Selim I, 1

Sultan Selim II, 40, 42

Sultan Süleyman (kanuni), 23, 27, 40, 52

Tucker, Judith, 183

Wallerstein, Immanuel, 110

Weber, Max, 15, 64, 84, 199n22

  
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Subject and Term Index

Acre, 11, 102

port in, 162

traders, 106, 164

Adhamiyya, brotherhood, 69

Administration, 36­37

imperial, 61

provincial, 36­37

agas, names and responsibilities, 25­26, 201n53

Agrarian relations, 115­117, 122­123, 128, 136, 143, 185

Agriculture, 6, 102, 115, 130

barley, 146

cotton, 134

see also Cotton

cultivators, 130

interest of local, 167­168

olive trees, 132­133, 145

see also Olive

orchards, 130, 132, 134

plantation, 130

products exported to Europe, 168

selling vineyard, 130, 132

vegetable gardens, 130, 132, 134

'Ajlun, district of, 49, 59

caravan to, 96

al­'Alami, family, 69, 71­73, 75, 82

Aleppo, 15, 24, 202n60

'Ajlun, district of, 49, 59

caravan to, 96

al­'Alami, family, 69, 71­73, 75, 82

Aleppo, 15, 24, 202n60

governor of, 1

Alliance, between dynasties, 56­57

economic, 50­52

military, 49, 101

amir al­darbayn, 41­42, 205n13

amir al­hajj. See Hajj Caravan, leader of

Anatolia, Christian villages in, 36

Appointments, administrative military, 36­37

al­Aqsa, 25, 69, 76, 80

payment to ulema in, 151

Arabic, language, 55­56

arpalik, holders, 121­122

Army, new Ottoman army, 119

see also Sepahis, Janissaries, Bedouin forces

'asabiyya, 65, 93

As 'adiyya mosque, 72

Ashraf, families, 60, 68, 149

benefits of, 73

leading the revolt, 66, 85

tax exemption, 137, 152­153

askeri, status, 65, 146, 192

'Asalis, merchant family, 75­76, 81

involvement in commerce, 76

asper (akce), 143

avariz, system, 146

ayan, (a'yan), 64, 66­67

taking over the administration, 64

in arab provinces, 66

relations with central government, 66
 ayan, (a'yan), 64, 66­67

taking over the administration, 64

in arab provinces, 66

relations with central government, 66

Ayyubids, 10

al­'Azariyya, village of, 107

al­Azhar, 69

Bab al­ 'Amud, 25

quarter of, 77

Bab al­Silsila. See Gates

Bab al­Wad, 11

Bab Hutta, 25

Baghdad, 65

Balaqina, tribe, 11, 107­108

Balkans, 3, 36

Bani Jayyus. See Bedouin, tribes

Banu Haritha. See Bedouin, tribes

Banu 'Amr, (nahiya), 2

Basra, vali of, 40

bayt. see House

Bayt Iksa, 13­14, 177

Bayt Jibrin, 11

  
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Bayt Lahm (Bethlehem), 11, 107

Bayt Lid, 133

bayt Liqya, 13­14

Bayt Safafa, 120, 124

Bayt Sahur, 124

Bazar. See Market

Bedouin, 6, 27, 52­53, 192

attacks, 20, 107

attitude towards sedentary groups, 93, 110­111

central governments attitude, 97, 114

deportation, 94

forces, 40­41, 99, 101­102

horses trainers, 104

raids, 95, 111

relations with villagers, 103, 107, 110

wit townsmen, 104, 110

roles, 98­99, 102

in local economy, 103, 106, 110

sanctions on, 96, 102­103

sheikhs, 49, 55, 94, 96, 98, 111

tribes, 55

Banu Haritha, 41, 59, 94

Bani Jayyus, 98

use of firearms, 113

women, 174­175

berats, 117, 118, 129

holders, 138

bey, title of, 66

al­Bimaristan al­Salahi (hospital), 28­29

Buddhists, 17
 holders, 138

bey, title of, 66

al­Bimaristan al­Salahi (hospital), 28­29

Buddhists, 17

Cairo, in the Mamluk period, 15

currency in, 143

revolts in, 63, 84,

Camels, 100­101, 103­104

caravans, 104, 106

importance of, 106

renters, 105

Cannons, 18­19, 164

Capitulations, 169

Cash crops, 102

Cattle, 102­103, 146

Cavalry force. See Sipahis

"Celali revolts," 35

Centralization, efforts, 59, 60­61, 63, 66, 72, 82­83, 193, 195

decentralization, 121, 193, 195

Cereals, trade of, 162

Chaldiran, valley of, 1

Christians, 3­4, 17­18, 22­23, 27, 31, 80, 200n48

armenian, 23

attacks, 20

communities, 28

taxes, 150

travelers, 9, 14

çiftlik system, 142

Citadel, 13

commander of, 100

City, "The Islamic City." See Islamic City

"Civilization," 108
Citadel, 13

commander of, 100

City, "The Islamic City." See Islamic City

"Civilization," 108

Coffee, import of, 102

houses, 29, 77

Coins. See Currency

Commerce (internal and external), 7, 10­11

central government's control, 103

notable's investment, 82

sufis families, 73

see also Trade

Convents, Franciscan, 23

Holy Sepulcher, 23, 25, 73, 134, 163

export of, 106, 162

import of, 102, 166, 168

industry, 170

trade 127, 168

yarn, 167

Craftsmen, production by, 167, 171

Crusades, 10, 20, 22

fear of, 32­33, 161, 170

Currency, asper, 143

foreign, 102, 143, 145, 169

ghurush, 143­144

Ottoman, 144

use of European, 145

values, 143, 224n4

Custody, 46

appointing custodian, 46­47

al­Dajjani, sufi family, 69, 73, 82

Damascus, 5, 10, 15, 20, 22, 35
 appointing custodian, 46­47

al­Dajjani, sufi family, 69, 73, 82

Damascus, 5, 10, 15, 20, 22, 35

aristocracy in, 55

bedouins in, 92

beylerbey of, 40, 42

iltizam, 119

jurisdiction of, 38

local elite of, 44

province of, 38

revolts, 84

Dammun, village of, 89

dar. See house

"Decline Paradigm," 194­195

devsirme, system, 36­37, 39, 53, 195

education in, 53

products of, 52, 91, 191

Dhimmis, 19, 26

District (sanjaq), 35­36, 38

governor of (sanjaq bey), 36­38

Divorce, 175, 181­183

Diyarbekir, province of, 39­40

Dome of the Rock, 25, 69, 150

  
 Page 253

Doweries, 82, 111, 175, 183

Draught, 100­101, 103, 108, 111

Druze, 40

Dynasties, (local), alliance of, 56, 61

military aliance of, 49

business ventures, 50­52

culture of 55­56

destruction of 60, 83, 114

language of, 55

loosing command of Hajj Caravan, 62

marriage corrections, 47­48

property, 50­52

raids over rural population, 50­51

relationships between the, 45

relations with bedouins, 55­56, 59

with central government, 52, 83

support the ulema, 83

tax collection, 59

unification, 45­47, 192

Economy, central governments involvement, 169

centralization in, 142

decentralization in, 169, 194

European control of, 128

economic activity, 26­27

differences, 23, 27, 31

periphery, 168

privileges, 88

sanctions, 96, 102­103

supervision, 156
 periphery, 168

privileges, 88

sanctions, 96, 102­103

supervision, 156

inflation, 145

local, 110, 116, 168

loss of control in, 145, 169

ottoman policy, 2­3, 6­7

self sufficient, 110­111

"world Economy," 116, 170, 193, 229n73

currency in use, see Currency

Edirne Vakasi, (the Edirne incident), 60, 62­64

Egypt, 2, 11, 83

governor of, 40

Elite, local governing, the emerging of, 35, 66, 87­88, 137, 191, 195

local notable, 68, 191

beduin sheikhs, 111

integration, 76­77, 79, 210n16

marriage ties, 79

Erzerum

governor of, 39

Ethiopia (habes), vali of, 40

Eunuchs, 111

Europe, 4, 7

Export, to Europe, 102, 162, 168

cotton, 166

eyalet. See Province

France, 4

cotton import into, 166

economy of, 194

government of, 166

trade with, 162
France, 4

cotton import into, 166

economy of, 194

government of, 166

trade with, 162

Farrukh, dynasty, 40, 43, 77

against Fakhr al­Din, 101

assets of, 50­52

governors, 43­45, 53­54, 95

heritage of, 52

names, roles and appointments, 43­45

relations with bedouins, 57, 101

fiqh, study of, 69­70

fatawa, 91, 111

Flour mills, 137

Franciscan convent. See Convents

Gaza, district of, 2­3, 11, 38, 56­58

court of, 50­51

as cultural center, 53

governors of, 25, 40­41, 121, 164

tribes in, 101

women in, 184

Garrison, soldiers, 89

local (mustahfizan), 100, 117

Gates, 18­19, 23, 25

gate of the chain (Bab al­Silsila), 25

ghafar money, 13­14

al­Ghudayya family, 75

see also al­Husayni family

Gold, 144­145

Government, central, 38

against privatization, 138
 see also al­Husayni family

Gold, 144­145

Government, central, 38

against privatization, 138

attitude towards new taxes, 150

capitulations, 168

control of the district, 122, 126, 128

destruction of local dynasties, 170

encouraging foriegn trade, 162, 167

loss of control over the trade, 169

involvement in local provincial economy, 169

relations with bedouins, 94­95

corruption in, 193

relations with sufi orders, 70

Governors, 52, 92, 114

appointments, 62

houses of, 32

replacement of, 122

ties with bedouins, 95, 97­98

Green Turban, 73­74

Guilds, 15, 26­27, 32­33, 154

Habes. See Ethiopia

hadith, 16

study of, 69­70

  
 Page 254

Haifa, 11

Hajj caravan, 40, 99

expenses of, 153

leading the, 40­44, 59, 208n51

leader of (amir al­Hajj), 40­44, 52, 58, 98

title of, 61

hammam, 176

hanedans, 35, 39

harem, 23­25

haramlik, 30­31

Hashish, 29

Hebron, 2, 11

agriculture in, 130

pilgrims, 91, 120

waqf's supervisor in, 126

Hindus, 17

Holy Sepulcher convent. See Convents

Horses, 103­104, 111

importance of, 106

trainers, 104

Hospital. See al­bimaristan

House, division of, 29­32

furniture in, 31

Households, 36­38, 142

establishment of, 52, 191

daily life in, 52

janissaries, 89

Husayni family, 74, 84

iktoub. See Marriage, agreement

 janissaries, 89

Husayni family, 74, 84

iktoub. See Marriage, agreement

iltizam (tax farming), 65, 81­82, 115­116, 118­119, 120, 122, 127, 129, 
137, 146, 203n72, 207n34

Import, 102

cotton, 166­167

finished products, 168­169

Industry, 146

european, 167­168

french, 166­168

local, 167

products, 102

textile, 166­168, 170

Inheritance, 46, 51, 71, 77, 82, 183­184

disputes, 89

documents, 55

rules of, 50, 90, 233n45

Integration, social, 152

of governing and notable elites, 76

of tribes, 94­95

iqta', system, 118, 122

"Islamic City," the debate, 14­17, 32­33

traits of, 17­18

isnads, 16

Jaffa, 11, 22, 102

development of, 164

merchants, 103

port of, 80, 101, 162­163

Janbirdi al­Ghazali, revolt of, 42

Janissaries, 1, 6, 27, 31, 36, 39, 88­89, 113
 merchants, 103

port of, 80, 101, 162­163

Janbirdi al­Ghazali, revolt of, 42

Janissaries, 1, 6, 27, 31, 36, 39, 88­89, 113

collecting taxes, 127, 152

power of, 60

status of, 88

weakness of, 87

Jarash, caravan to, 96

Jenin, 52

Jericho, 11

Jewelers, ta'ifa of, 156

Jews, 3­4, 17­18, 23, 27, 31, 201n48

jewish, communities, 28, 231n24

merchants, 103

travelers, 9­14

taxes, 150

jizya, 26, 150, 152, 185

see also Taxes, poll taxes

Jordan Valley, 2, 11

Judean desert, 93

Juisprudence. See fiqh

Kaitbay madrasa, 25

Kalandaris, sufi fraternity, 69

kapi kullari, sultan's slaves, 117

Karak Shawabak, sanjaq of, 44

governors estate, 121

Karlowitz treaty, 63

khan, 13

Khan Yunus, 2

kharaj, poll tax, 82, 150

Khasiki Takiya, 28, 202n61
 khan, 13

Khan Yunus, 2

kharaj, poll tax, 82, 150

Khasiki Takiya, 28, 202n61

Khasikiyya, waqf of, 13, 27­28, 69, 177, 199n19, 231n18

supervisor of, 137

khawaja, title of, 75

Köprülü vezirs, 83, 159

apearance of, 57, 59

Lajjun, district of, 11, 13, 38, 52

governor of, 43

territory of, 42

Turabays in, 11, 56, 98

Land, 171

inheritance of, 183

ownership, 135­136, 184

of the state, 131

See also miri

sultanic, 130, 132, 135

tenure, 115­116, 128­129, 132

landlords, 27

lessors, 50­51

Lebanon, 41

  
 Page 255

levend. See sekban

liwa'. See sanjaq

Ludd, village of, 137

Lyon, 167

madhhabs, 16, 32, 69, 182

madrasas, 69, 118

names, Jawhari, 50

uthmani, 50

ottoman system, 78

Magreb, 16

mahr, 76, 181­183, 231n25

delayed, 183

majlis (majlis al­shar'), 79

Malta, 22

mamluks, military slaves, 23, 59, 89, 94

Mamluk Sultanate, 1­2, 10

administrative division, 2, 23, 39

army, 1

period, 72, 161

qayitbay (sultan), 145, 225n14

taxation, 145, 154

Manpower, sources of, 36­37

manzil, 13

Marj Dabik, 42

Market, 27

Marriage, abrogation of, 179­182, 231­232n28

agreement, 174­175, 179

between dynasties, 55

exogamous and endogamous, 53

Marriage, abrogation of, 179­182, 231­232n28

agreement, 174­175, 179

between dynasties, 55

exogamous and endogamous, 53

mixed, 76­77

tax, 179

ties, 55, 182

wedding ceremony, 175, 182

in a village, 179, 163

Marseilles, chamber of commerce, 165

port of, 162

al­Maslakh, 23

Mawlawis, sufi brotherhood, 69, 71

Mecca, 2, 15

pilgrims to, 40­41, 94, 104­105

Medina, 2

pilgrims to, 94

Merchants, 13, 26, 29, 106, 171

announcements at court, 160­161

families: 'Asalis and Mirliz, 75

foreign, 102, 163, 167, 171, 194

french, 163, 165­166, 168

payment of taxes, 152

ta'ifa, 154

milk (private property), 131­132, 136

miri (state land), 131­132, 136, 183

sultani, 135

Mirliz family, 75

Mosul, ulema in, 65

Mount Zion, 23

muhtasib, 26, 146, 151, 156, 224n16

muqata'a, 65, 118, 124

multazim, 119
Mount Zion, 23

muhtasib, 26, 146, 151, 156, 224n16

muqata'a, 65, 118, 124

multazim, 119

Muslim population, 23, 27, 31

mutasallim, 66

Nabi Musa, 80,

pilgrims to, 91, 103, 198n18

Nabulus, district of, 11, 38

agriculture in, 130

fort of, 56

governor of, 41, 43, 50­51

amir al­Hajj, 52

number of timars, 126,

women in, 184­185

zeamet holders, 120

nahiya, 2

Naqib al Ashraf, appointments, 74

revolt of, 5, 32, 60, 67, 75, 84­85, 139, 171, 191, 193

Neighborhoods, al­Sharaf, al­Maslakh, al­Rsha, 23

Notables, as social stratum, 64­66, 68, 84­85, 191­192

buying lands, 136­137

collecting taxes, 127

economic exploitation, 191­193

elections for the head of, 66

leading the revolt, 139

relations with central government, 65­67, 82

tax exemption, 137­138

ulema and merchants, 65­66, 68

wealth, 81­82, 121, 138­139

O
 ulema and merchants, 65­66, 68

wealth, 81­82, 121, 138­139

Olive, oil, 102, 106, 127

trees, 132

Olives, mount of, 72

"the Ottoman Way," 5

pasha, title of, 66, 121

Peasants, 152

see also Villagers

"Peripheralization," 128, 168­171, 194

Pilgrimage, 52, 72

Pilgrims, 91­92, 97, 120

christian and jewish, 19

Hajj pilgrims, 99, 104­105

  
 Page 256

Pirates, 163

raids, 164

Polygamy, 55

Population, demographic data, 23, 197n4

devision of, 23­24

social devision, 79

townsmen, 27, 60, 92­93, 109

villagers, 26­28, 60, 92­93, 109

Privatization, 128­129, 135

struggle to prevent, 138

Province (eyalet), 35­36, 38

administration of a, 61

Arab provinces, 35, 191, 193

governor of (vali beylerbey), 36­37

Property, private, 81, 130­131

see also milk

Qadi, appointments and responsibility, 25­27, 121, 155­158, 175, 181,

201n54

court of, 33

power of, 64

qirat, 24

Quarters, 24

Ramallah, 11

Ramla, 2, 11, 21, 96

French traders and merchants in, 101, 162, 164, 166

European merchants in, 164

governors estate, 51

raqaba, 118, 125, 129, 132, 136

 French traders and merchants in, 101, 162, 164, 166

European merchants in, 164

governors estate, 51

raqaba, 118, 125, 129, 132, 136

Ras al­'Ayn, 98

Raydaniyya, the battle in, 2

reaya, 31, 36­37, 146

notables of, 65­66

assisting notables, 84

tax exemption, 148­149

Revolts, 39­41, 65, 139, 160­161, 191

Janbirdi al­Ghazali, 42

Ridwan, house of, 39

against Fakhr al­Din, 101

assets, 50­52

governors, 53­54

names and appointments, 39­41

as ottoman elite, 53­54

relations with bedouins, 57

remove from power, 57, 77

al­Risha (neighborhood), 23

Roads, main, 11, 13,

security of, 13, 98

Robbers, 13­14

sadat, families, 74, 149

Safad, 2­3

agriculture in, 102, 130

districts of, 49, 198n8

governors estate, 121

Safavids, 1, 40

sanjaq, 2, 35­36

Sayda (Sydon), port of, 106, 162, 198n8
 governors estate, 121

Safavids, 1, 40

sanjaq, 2, 35­36

Sayda (Sydon), port of, 106, 162, 198n8

trading community in, 166

Sekban, 76, 92, 212n47, 216n35

selamlik, 29, 31, 149­150, 225n20

Servants, 27

Al­Sharaf, 23

sharia' (Islamic law), 50­51, 136, 155, 179, 183

sharia' court (majlis al shar' al­sharif), 4, 25

courts responsibilities, 25, 27, 33

Sheep, 96, 102­103, 108

tax on, 124

Sheiks, appointments, 99

sijill registers, importance of, 44­45

Silver, 144­145

Sinai desert, 2, 93

sipahis, 3, 36, 38­39, 113, 117, 148

as ayan, 67­68

bedel and tekalif payment, 148

as tax collectors, 127, 152

decline of, 143, 147

leasing lands, 143

revenues of, 147

weakness of, 87, 89­92, 119, 124

Slaves and Slavery, 15, 27, 36

kapi kullari, 117

kullarin kullari (the slaves' slaves), 52

mamluks, 54, 89

military, 45

purchase of, 88

recruitment of, 54
 mamluks, 54, 89

military, 45

purchase of, 88

recruitment of, 54

Soap, 102, 162

alkaline ashes, 106, 108, 162

factories, 137

industry, 170

Social, mobility, 27, 37, 52, 64, 76, 81, 152

Socialization, Mamluk pattern of, 68, 88

Sufi, fraternities (tariqa), 6, 15, 28, 68­69

families, 69

with orthodox religion, 69­70

Sultan, 92

education in the palace, 61

governor appointments, 62

household as a model, 54

lands, 130, 136

ownership of, 130

  
 Page 257

surra, 73, 79, 82, 212n56

to bedouin sheiks, 96, 99

Syria, 1, 65

Tanzimat period, 195

tapu­tahrir surveys, 142, 200n46

importance of, 141

tariqas. See Sufi fraternities

tasarruf, 118, 125, 132, 136

tawa'if (single: ta'ifa), artisans and merchants, 154­155

cooperation, 171

head of, 155

management of, 156­157

members of, 157­158, 226n34

monopolist control of, 158

dyers' ta'ifa, 158

oil press ta'ifa, 157

potters' ta'ifa

Taxation, Ottoman principles, 2­3, 6­7, 142, 145, 146, 148

avariz system, 146­148, 150

decentralization, 148, 154, 169

exemption, 81, 88, 94, 137­138, 148, 151­153

loss of coherence, 169

Taxes, collection of, 26, 36, 99, 108, 115­116, 118, 123, 127

collectors, 151

kinds of, hisba, 118

ihtisab, 150

marriage, 179

new, 149

poll, 82, 150

 ihtisab, 150

marriage, 179

new, 149

poll, 82, 150

villages, 52, 82

war, 148

Tax farming (iltizam), 119­120, 127

farms, 119, 128

see also iltizam

Textile. See Industry

Thawba, revolt of, 102

timar, system, 2­3, 6, 36­37, 60, 115­120, 129, 220n15

destruction of, 129, 137, 143

holders, 52, 60, 91, 116­117, 122, 129, 136, 148

and bedouins, 96

lease of, 123­125, 127, 128, 132

privatization of, 135, 142

sultanic land as, 130, 135

timariots, 122­125, 127, 128

transfer of, 91

Tobacco, 29, 32, 102

Townsmen, 92

as local notable elite, 111

relations with nomads and villagers, 106, 110­112

Trade, during the Mamluk period, 161

European, 102, 106

with Europe, 145, 164

foreign, 161­162, 193

French, 171

growth in, 165­166

interests of local, 167

internal, 154

womens role in, 184
 growth in, 165­166

interests of local, 167

internal, 154

womens role in, 184

Travelers, 9­14

Tribes, of bedouins, 'Arab al­'A'id and 'Arab Ghazza, 101

Tripoly, (Tarablus al­Sham), 27

governor of, 41

Tul Karm, 50­51

Turabay, court of, 111

family of, 41, 94

revolt of, 102

Turabays, 52, 77, 114

against Fakhr al­Din, 101

appointments to governors, 96

relations with Ridwans, 42

with Ottomans, 94­95

Turkish speakers, 56, 76

Tuscany, 20, 49

ulema, 16, 18, 27, 29, 71

collecting taxes, 152

connections with sufis, 73

consultation with, 53

dispossession of, 60

education of, 69

from imperial center, 82

houses of, 31­32

leading the revolt, 66, 85, 139

as local notables, 67

relations with merchants, 159

roles, 64

in Ottoman administration, 70
 as local notables, 67

relations with merchants, 159

roles, 64

in Ottoman administration, 70

tax exemption, 137, 154

'ulufa, 79­81

ümera, 37­39, 62, 121

career path of, 53, 99

class, 61, 68

Unions. See tawa'if

''urban community," 18­19, 32­33

vali (wali), 2­3

vezir, becoming a, 52

influence of vezirate, 195

vezirs of the divan, 59

vilayet (province), 2

Villages, headmen of, 146

attacks on, 84

leasing of, 125­128

raids, 111

  
 Page 258

Villagers, armed, 92

see also Sekban

and bedouins, 102103, 106, 110­111

landed assets, 138, 220n15

sending petitions, 153­154

Wailing Wall, 23

walls, 19, 27

importance of, 19­23

"mental" walls, 22

repair of, 100

waqf, 3, 129

endowments, 142,

institutions, 118, 125, 136, 147

property leasing, 127, 132

responsibilities, 28

supervisors, 118, 125­126

Weapons, 103

use of firearms, 113, 143

Wheat, 102, 127, 146, 162

Wilaya. See vilayet

Women, 7

age of marriage, 55, 174

bride price, 175, 231n25

christian, 180

conducting business, 185

court's attitude, 178­179, 184, 186­189

education of, 176, 185, 188

gender roles, 173

murders of, 177­178

 court's attitude, 178­179, 184, 186­189

education of, 176, 185, 188

gender roles, 173

murders of, 177­178

muslim, 174

inheritance rights, 50, 183­184

in bedouin society, 174

in Europe, 174

in sijill records, 176, 186­187

in trade, 184

in villages, 173, 182­183

occupations, 185

property of, 183­184

rules of separation, 179, 187­189

social activity and status of, 176, 183, 188­189

sultanate of, 193

widows, 174

Wool, 96, 102, 168

industries, 170

Yarkon River ('ujja), 21, 101

yerliyya, military forces, 84, 92, 150­151

zeamet, (large timar), 37, 117

holders of, 78, 100, 120, 128

Zarqa', wadi, 103